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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



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ALFRED T 



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ILLUSTRATED. 



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CHICAGO : 
NATIONAL LIBRARY ASSOCIATION. 



COPYRIGHT SECURED ]891 



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JUN 16 1945 



PAGE. 

ADDRESS TO THE QUEEN l 

POEMS AND SONGS. (Published A. D. 1S30) 3 

Claribcl (A Medley) 5 

Nothing will Die 6 

All Things will Die 7 

The Kraken S 

Lilian 9 

Isabel ro 

Mariana n 

To ..■ 14 

Madeline 15 

We are Free 16 

Songs — The Owl 17 

Second Song to the Same 17 

Recollections of the Arabian Nights iS 

Ode to Memory. Addressed to 23 

Song — "A Spirit haunts the year's last hours" 27 

The Poet , 2S 

The Poet's Mind 30 

Sea Fairies 31 

To |. M. K 32 

The Deserted House 33 

A Dirge 34 

A Character 36 

Adeline 37 

Supposed Confessions of a second-rate Sensitive Mind not in Unity wi;h Itself y^ 

H ero to Leander 44 

The Burial of Love 46 

The Mystic 47 

Elegiacs 4S 

The Dying .Swan 49 

The Ballad of Oriana 50 

The Merman 53, 

The Mermaid 54 

Circumstance 55 

Love and Death 56 

To Juliet 56 

Timbuctoo 57 

The Grasshopper 6j 



Iv. COXTEXTS. 



To a Lady Sleeping G_j 

Chorus (In an Unpublished drama, written very early) 61; 

National Song 06 

English War Song 67 

Love 63 

The " How" and the "Why" 70 

Of //outs? -I 

Dualisms 72 

Love, Pride and Forgetfulness 73 

Lost Hope 73 

Love and Sorrow 7,^ 

Sonnets: 

i. " The lintwhite and the throsllecock '' 71; 

ii. "Though Night hath climb'd her peak of highest noon " 76 

iii. "Shall the hag Evil die with child of Good " 76 

iv. " r the glooming light" 77 

v. " Could I outwear my present state of woe " 77 

vi. " The pallid thunderstricken sigh of gain " ... 7>i 

vii. "Every day hath its night'' 78 

viii. The Tears of Heaven 79 

POEMS AND SONGS. (Published A. D. 1S32) Sr 

The Lady ofShalott . S3 

Mariana in the South 90 

Eleanore 93 

The Miller's Daughter 97 

Fatima lo^ 

Qinone 105 

The Sisters 113 

To , (with the following poem) 114 

The Palace of Art 115 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere 125 

The May Queen 12S 

New Year's Eve 130 

Conclusion 132 

The Lotos-Eaters 13; 

Choric Song 137 

A Dream of Fair Women 141 

Margaret 151 

The Blackbird 153 

The Goose 1S4 

O Darling Room 1 56 

The Death of the Old Year 157 

To J S 158 

Freedom 1 6 1 

You Ask Me Why 162 

LoveThcu Thy Land 163 

A Fragment 166 

No More 167 

Anacreontics 167 

?OEMS AND SONGS. (Published A. D. 1S33) 169 

The Hesperides 171 

Rosalind 174 



CONTENTS. 



To 176 

Kate 177 

Sonnets: 

i. " Mine be Ihe strength of spirit lull and free" 17S 

ii. WhoCanSay 179 

iii. To Christoplier North 179 

\\. " Caressed or chidden h\ the slender hand " 179 

V. Poland iSo 

vi. " How long, O God, shall men be ridden down" iSo 

vii. " Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to take the cast " .... ,iSo 

viii. " Me my own fate to lasting sorrow doometh " iSi 

ix. '• Check every outtlash, every ruder sally " iSi 

X. Alexander 182 

xi. Bonaparte 1S2 

xii. To 1S3 

xiii. " The form, the form alone is eloquent! " 1S3 

xiv. " O bridesmaid, ere the happy knot was tied" 1S3 

XV. "O beauty, passing beauty, sweetest sweet " 1S4 

xvi. ■' But wore I loved as I desire to be " , 18.^ 

ENGLLSII IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS. (Published A. D. 1S42) 1S5 

The Epic 1S7 

Morte D'Arthur iSS 

The Gardener's Daughter ; or. The Pictures 15- 

Dora 204 

Audley Court 210 

Walking to the Mail 213 

Edwin Morris; or, The Lake 216 

St. Simeon Stylites 221 

The Talking Oak 227 

Love and Duty 237 

The Golden Year 240 

Ulysses 243 

Come Not, When I am Dead 245 

Locksley Hall 246 

Godiva 255 

The Two Voices 25S 

The Day-Dream 272 

Prologue ; 272 

The -Sleeping Palace 273 

The Sleeping Beauty 274 

The Arrival 275 

The Revival 276 

The Departure 27S 

Moral 279 

L'Envoi 279 

Epilogue 2S1 

Amphion 2S1 

Will \\'aterproof's Lyrical Monologue 2S4 

To E. L., on his travels in Greece 291 

Lady Clare 292 

Sir Galahad 296 

St. Agnes' Eve. . i 299 

To -, after reading a Lite and Letters 300 

The Lord of Burleigh '. 302 



COA'TENTS. 



The Pott's Song 304 

Edward Gray 305 

Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 307 

The Eagle 30S 

The Beggar Maid 309 

A Farewell. 310 

The Vision of Sin 311 

Move Eastward, Happy Earth 317 

" Break, break, break" 318 

THE PRINXESS: A MEDLEY. (Published A. D. 1847; 319 

Prologue 321 

Conclusion 401 

IN MEMORIAM A. II. H. (Published in 1850) 405 

ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON 505 

MAUD AND OTHER POEMS. (Published in 1855) 513 

Maud : A Monodrama 515 

The Brook (An Idyl) 554 

The Daisy (written at Edinburgh) 563 

To the Rev. F. D. Maurice 566 

The Charge of the Light Brigade 56S 

Will ; 570 

The Grandmother 571 

The Letters 574 

JDYLS OF THE KING. (Published in 1858). , 577 

Dedication 579 

Enid 5S1 

Vivien C>27 

Elaine 649 

Guinevere 6S5 

ENOCH ARDEN. (Published in 1S64) 705 

OCCASIONAL POEMS AND SONGS 733 

Aylmer's Field. (1793) 73.S 

Sea Dreams 757 

Northe^-n Farmer— Old Style 765 

Northern Farmer — New Style 767 

Requiescat 7*^9 

Tithonus 770 

The Voyage 77- 

Lucretius ... 775 

The Higher Pantheism 78J 

The New Timon and the Poeis 783 

The Skipping-Rope 7S4 

On a Mourner 7S5 

The Flower 786 

The Captain. (.\ Legend of the Navy) 7S7 

The Ringlet 7S9 

The Islet .' 791 



CONTENTS. 



Wages 79- 

The Victim 793 

The Sailor Boy 795 

After-Thouglit 79''^ 

Ode Sung at the Opening of the International Exhibition , 797 

Sonntt to Wiliiam Charles Macready 79^ 

Stanzas • 799 

The Third o£ February, 1852 799 

Britons, Guard Your Own Soi 

Hands All Round 803 

The War 805 

A Welcome to Alexandra (March 7, 1S63) 806 

England and America in 17S2 807 

On a Spiteful Letter SoS 

A Dedication S09 

I S65-1 S66 ■ > S09 

In the Valley of Cauteretz 810 

Song — "Lady, let the rolling drums " 810 

Song — " Home they brought; him slain with spears " Sio 

EXPERIMENTS: 

Boadicea 811 

In Quantity.. S14 

Milton : 814 

Specimen of a Translation of the Iliad in blank verse S16 

THE WINDOW, OR THE SONGS OF THE WRENS S19 

On the Hill 821 

At the Window 822 

Gone 822 

Winter ... 823 

Spring S23 

The Letter S24 

No Answer 825 

No Answer 82 5 

The Answer . , 826 

When.- S27 

Marriage Morning ! S27 

DESPAIR. (Published ,V. D. iSSi) 829 

THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE AT BALAKLAVA S33 




%^g?^^. afSa <^ 

PORTRAIT OF ALFRED TENNYSON Frontispiece 

ADDRESS TO THE QUEEN. 

Ornamental Title...' xv 

Illustrated Heading i 

.'•OEMS AND SONGS. (Published A. D. 1S30.) 

Ornamental Title 3 

Claribel. 

" But the solemn oak-tree sigheth " 5 

Lilian 9 

Mariana. 

She wept, " I am aweary, aweary, 

O God, that I were dead!" 13 

The Owl 17 

vj.ecollections of the arabian nights. 

Illustrated Heading iS 

" Anight my shallop, rustling thro' 

The low and bloomed foliage " iS 

" Bearing on my shallop thro' the star-strown calm " 19 

" Then stole I up, and trancedly 

Gazed on the Persian girl alone " 21 

Ode to Memory. 

" The seven elms, the poplftrs four 

That stand beside my father's door " 24 

" Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat 
Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds " 2? 

The Poet's Mind. 

" From the brain of the purple mountain 
'Which stands in the distance yonder " -^ 

Sea Fairies. 

Illustrated Heading 31 

The Deserted House. 

" Thro' the windows we shall see 
The nakedness and vacancy 
Of the dark deserted house" 33 

A Dirge. 

Illustrated Heading ; 34 

Adeline. 
" Wherefore those dim looks of thine 

Shadowy, dreaming Adeline .'" 57 

" Hast thou looked upon the breath 3S 

Of the lilies at sunrise.'" 

Supposed Confessions. 

" The lamb rejoiceth in the year. 
And raceth freely with his fere" 43 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Hero to Leander. 

" No Western odors wander 

On the black and moaning sea" 45 

The Dying Swan. 

" With an inner voice the river ran, 
Adown it floated a dying swan " 49 

The Mermaid 54 

The Grasshopper. 

Flower Ornament 64 

National Song. 

Arms of Great Britain 66 

Love. 

Illustrated Heading 6S 

The " How " and the " Why." 

" Why the heavy oak grows, and the white willows sigh .'" 70 

" The little bird pipeth — why .' why .'" 71 

Dualisms. 

" Over a stream two birds of glancing feather 
Do woo each other, carolling together " 72 

Sonnets. 

" The lint white and the throstlecock" 75 

" Showering down the glory of lightsome day "...,, 79 

POEMS AND SONGS. (Published A. D. 1830.) 

Ornamental Title 81 

The Lady of Shalott. 

" When the moon was overhead, 

Came two young lovers, lately wed " 85 

" Thickjewell'd shone the saddle-leather."' 86 

" Out flew the web and floated wide" 87 

Mariana in the South. 

" Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat" 91 

Eleanore. 

"Thunder-clouds . . . grow golden all about the sky " 91; 

The Miller's Daughter. 

The Miller's Daughter 97 

" Each morn my sleep was broken thro' 

By some wild skylark's matin song " 98 

CEnon^:. 

" Hear me O earth, hear me O hilk, 

O caves " 106 

" Then to the bower they came. 
Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, 
And at their feet the crocus brake like fire " 113 

The Palace of Art. 

" The iron coast and angry waves " 117 

" Uther's deeply wounded son watched by weeping queens " 1 19 

" The reapers at their sultry toil " 120 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere. 
" You pine among your halls and towers " 127 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



The May Queen. 

Butterfly and Roses ;.... 128 

' You must wake and call me early, call me earl^', mother dear " 129 

" Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May " 130 

" I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed " 133 

The Mother, Effie and Robin 134 

The Lotos Eaters. 

"This mountain wave will roll us shoreward soon " 135 

" The charmed sunset linger'd low adown 

In the red West : thro' mountain clefts the dale '* 136 

A Dream of Fair Women. 

" Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand " , 142 

" A queen with swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes" 145 

" I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found 

Me lying dead, my crown about my brows " , . 146 

" All night the splinter'd crags that wall the dell • 

With spires of silver shine " 147 

" Saw God divide the night with flying flame, 

And thunder on the everlasting hills" 149 

Joan of Arc 150 

The Blackbird. 

" Blackbird, sing me something well " 153 

The Goose. 

" The goose flew this way and flew that. 

And filled the house with clamor '' 155 

POEMS AND SONGS. (Published A. D. 1833.) 

Ornamental Title 169 

To . 

" And when the sappy field and wood " 176 

Kate. 

Illustrated Heading 177 

Sonnet, xi. 

Bonaparte 1S4 

ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS. (Published A. D. 1S42.) 

Ornamental Title 1S5 

MoRTE D'Arthcr. 
' ' An arm 

Rose up from out the bosom of the lake " 1S9 

" But when I looked again, behold an arm 

Cloth'd in white samite, mystic, wonderful " 192 

" But she that rose the tallest of them all 

And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, 

And call'd him by his name" 194 

THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER ; or. The Pictures. 
" He cried, ' Look! look!' Before he ceased I turn'd 

And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there " 200 

" Ah, one rose. 
One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cuU'd " 201 

Dora. 

" I will not marry Dora " 205 

" Then they clung about 
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times " 209 



L/ST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. xl. 



Edwin Morris; or, the Lake. 

" I was a sketcher then : 
See here, my doing: curves of mountain, bridge. 
Boat, island, ruins of a castle " 216 

*' And now "we left 
The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran 

Bv ripply shallows of the lispipg lake " 217 

" The prime swallow dips his wing "' 220 

The Talking Oak. 

The maiden in her teens 229 

•' O yes, she wandered round and round 

These knotted knees of jnine " 232 

" I see the moulder'd Abbey -walls " 233 

" As when I see the woodman lift 

His axe to slay my kin " 235 

The Golden Year. 

" Fly, happy, happy sails " 241 

High above I heard them blast 
The steep slate quarry, and the great echo flap 
And buSet round the' hills from bin ft" to blufi"" 242 

Ulysses. 

" There lies the port ; the vessel pull's her sail " 244 

Lockslev Hall. 

" My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me " 247 

" And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips ' 24? 

" Nature brings thee solace; for a tender voice will cry " 250 

GODIVA. 

" Then fled slie to her inmost bower, and tliere 

Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her belt "' 256 

The Day- Dream. 

" My beard has grown into ny lap " 277 

Amphion. 

" Young ashes pirouetted down, 

Coquetting with young beeches " 2S1 

To E. L., ON his Travels in Greece. 

" For me the torrent ever pour'd " 290 

Lady Clare. 

Illustrated 1 leading 292 

" It was th'i time when lilies blow " 293 

"The lilv-white doe Lord Ronald had brought 

Leapt up from where she lay " ._ 294 

Sir Galahad. 

" Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth. 

The silver vessels sparkle clean " 297. 

St. Agnes' Eve. 

" Deep on the convent roof the snows 

Are sparkling to the moon " 299 

The Poets' .Song. 

" And the nightingale thought, ' I have sung many songs ' " 304 

Edward Gray. 
" Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me: 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away " 305 



xii. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



The Eagle. 

"He clasps the crag with hooked hands" 308 

The Beggar Maid. 

" Barefooted came the beggar maid " , , 309 

A Farewell. 
"A rivulet, then a river" 310 

" Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O sea! " 318 

THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. (Published A. D. 1847.) 

Ornamental Title 3'9 

And echo, like a ghostly woodpecker 326 

"High-arch'd and ivy-claspt, 

Of finest Gothic lighter than afire" 328 

" Thro' the wild woods that hung about the town " 336 

"And all about us peal'd the nightingale " 332 

" A boat 
Tacks, and the slacken'd sail flaps " 337 

"The creature laid his muzzle on your lap" 340 

"The splendor falls on castle w-alls 

And snowy summits old in story " 354 

''There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun " 3SS 

" Home they brought her warrior dead " = 382 

"Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height" 397 

"A bird 
That earlv woke to feed her little ones " 400 

" The walls 
Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and owls whoop'd 404 

IN MEMORIAM. (Published A. D. 1S50.) 

Ornamental Title 40S 

" And makes a silence in the hills " 420 

" And one is sad ; her note is changed, 

Because her brood is stol'n away " 424 

" But I should turn mine ears and hear 

The moanings of the homeless sea " 430 

" Or seal'd within the iron hills " 440 

" Beside the river's wooded reach " 450 

" Ere these have clothed their branchy bowers " 456 

''The primrose of the later year" -|62 

" And thou, with all thy breadth and height 

Of foliage, towering sycamore " 465 

"And the trees 

Laid their dark arms about the field " 472 

" On von swollen brook that bubbles fast " 475 

" Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky " 4S1 

" And milkier every milky sail 

On winding stream or distant sea" 4S6 

" Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night, 

Bv thee the world's great work is heard " 492 

" I hear thee where the waters run ; 
Thou standest in the rising sun. 

And in the setting thou .irt fair " 497 

" Her sweet ' I will,' has made ye one " 500 

ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. (Published in 1S52.) 

The Duke of Wellington 504 

"Till o'er tlie hills her eagles flew*' 507 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATION'S. xiii. 

MAUD AND OTHER POEMS. (Published A. D. 1S55.) 

Ornamental Title ^ij 

"The dark old place will be gilt by the touch of a millionaire " ^i- 

" Morning arises stormy and pale, 

And the budded peaks of the wood are bow'd" :;2i 

" Birds in our woods sang " i^jS 

■'The rivulet on from the lawn 

i^unning down to niv own dark wood " c->i 

"The woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 

And the musk of the roses blown " q.o 

"In the garden bv the turrets 

Of the old manorial hall " c 18 

The Brook. (An Idyl.) 

" Here, by this brook, we parted " rji 

" I come from haunts of coot and hern " cijj 

"I chatter over stony ways " ^^6 

" In copse and fern 

Twinkled the innumerable ear and tail" ^:;q 

" Not by the well-known stream and rustic spire, 

But unfamiliar Arno, and the doine " , , ^ -60 

" We bought the farm we tenanted before " i;6i 

The D.msy. 

"A mouldered citadel on the coast" cgi 

" A thousand shadowy -pencil'd valleys " 564 

To THE Rev. F. D. Maurice. • 

" Pay one visit here " ,. rg-r 

The Uharge of the Light Brigade. 

The Charge of the Light Brigade egg 

" Storm'd at with shot and sliell " egg 

The Letters. 

" And gave mv letters back to me " , c-- 

" Low breezes fann'd the belfry bars " , c-^^ 

IDYLS OF THE KING. (Published A. D. 1S5S.) 

Ornamental Title r-,~ 

57/ 

Enid ^Si 

" And thither came Geraint, and underneath 

Beheld the long street of a little town" ^87 

" Here by God's rood is the one inaid for me " i-qq 

" About her hollow turret, pluck'd the grass . . . 

Wove and unwove it . . , " ^oq 

Vivien. 

" And pushing his black craft among them all, 

He lightly scatter'd theirs, and brought her off " , ,. f^-— 

" She ceased, and made her lithe arm around his neck " 6iq 

Elaine. 

Ornamental Title g, „ 

" Steer'd by the dumb went upward with the flood " -6^5 

Guinevere gS- 

" Himself beheld three spirits mad with jov 

Come dashing down on a tall wayside flower " „ . , 692 

ENOCH ARDEN. (Published A. D. 1864.) 

Ornamental Title -q- 

" Cared not to look on any human face, 

But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept" ^j , 



LI ST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



" ' Let me rest,' she said:" 717 

"The ship Good Fortune, tho' at setting forth 

The Biscay, roughly riding eastward, shook " 7^1 

"Tlius.over Enocli's early-silvering head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came and went 

Year afier year " 7-4 

" ' Did you know Enoch Arden, of this town? ' " 730 

" So past the strong heroic soul away " 73-; 

tJCCASIONAL POEMS AND SONGS. 

Ornamental Title 733 

Aylmer's Field. 

" Somewhere beneath his own low range of roofs " 736 

" A summer burial deep in hollyhock; 

Each, its-own charm; and Edith's everywhere " 73J 

'• Fetch'd his richest beeswing from a bin reserv'd " 745 

" Never since our bad earth became one sea" 751 

Sea Dreams. 

" A wreck, a wreck ! ' 75^ 

" And near the light a giant woman sat" 761 

The Voyage. 

" We past long lines of Northern capes " .. 773 

Lucretius. 

" The bird makes his heart voice amid the blaze of flowers" 777 

The Captain. . 

" Spars were splintered, decks were shattered '• 7^8 

The Islet. 

" A mountain islet pointed and peak'd " 791 

Sung at the Opening uf the International Exhibition. 

" And crown'd with all her flowers" 799 

The Third of February, 1S52. 

" Belter the waste Atlantic roll'd " SoQ 

I . Welcome to Alexandra. 

"Roll as a ground-swell dash"d on the strand " S06 

" Break, happy land, into earlier flowers " S07 

Boadicea. 

'' While I roved about the forest, long and bitterly meditating" 812 

In Quantity. 

" Like the skater on ice that hardly bears him " S15 

Specimen of a Translation of the Iliad in Blank Verse. 
" As when in heaven tlie stars about the moon 
Look beautiful " Bid 

THE WINDOW; OR, THE SONGS OF THE WRENS. 

Ornanicntal Title .. 819 

*' Rose, rose and clematis, 

Drop me a tlower to kiss " S ;2 

"We'll be birds of a feather" 824 

" Be merry, all birds, to-day " ...... S25 

" Be merry in heaven, O larks " S26 

" O the woods and the meadows " 828 

DESPAIR. (Published A. D. 18S1.} 

Ornamental Title 82* 







T^E QnEElf>)= ill 











TO THE QUEEN. 



<^^^i£s^is:]Je^I»^s: 



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f 3)mgg^:^|Ti^^£^|^ __^sjsi^>p^i^r^i^::^ 



^^EVERED, beloved— O you that hold 
f|' A nobler office upon earth 

''I^Jr* Than arms, or power of brain, or birth 
'* * Could frive the warrior kings of old. 



#■ 

^^ 1^*: ''^_:^W_ •• ^v Victoria, since your Ro^-al grace 
'^?{f^-'^'"$^^^^ To one of less desert allows 



This laurel greener from the brows 
Of him that utterVl nothing base; 



And should your greatness, and the care 
That yokes with empire, yield }'ou time 
To make demand of modern rhyme 

If aught of ancient worth be there; 

Then, while a sweeter music wakes. 

And thro' wild March the throstle calls, 
Where all about your palace-walls 

The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes — 

Take, Madam, this poor book of song; 
For tho' the faults were thick as dust 
In yacant chambers, I could trust 

Your kindness. May you rule us long, 

And leaye us rulers of your blood 

As noble till the latest day! 

May children of dur children say, 
" She wrought her people lasting.good; 



TO THE QUEEN. 



March, 1851. 



" Her court was pure; her life serene; 

God ga\e her peace; her land rtposed; 

A thousand claims to reverence closed 
In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen; 

"Antl statesmen at her council met 

Wiio knew the seasons, when to take 
Occasion hv the hand, and make 
The hounds of freedom wider yet 

'• Rv shapinjv some august decree. 

Which kept her throne unshaken still, 
Broad based upon the people's will. 

And compassed by the inviolate sea." 







gi{oiE]iQiili|{li[o]iol|o]|> 
>I&\tP' '- _ ^. l.^?E)l^ 




4 












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C^'' s> -^^ s.^ 



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" But the solmn oak-tree sigheth." 



CLARIBEL. 



CLARIBEL. 




A MELODY. 



HERE Claribel lovv-Heth 
The breezes pause and die, 

Letting tlie rose leaves fall: 
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, 

Thick-leaved, ambrosial. 
With an ancient melody 
Of an inward agony, 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 



II. 

At eve the beetle boometh 

Athwart the thicket lone: 
At noon the wild bee hummeth 

About the moss'd headstone: 
At midnight the moon cometh, 

And looketh down alone. 
Her song the lintwhite swelleth. 
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth, 

The callow throstle lispeth, 
The slumberous wave outwelleth, 

The babbling runnel crispeth, 
The hollow grot replieth 

Where Claribel low-lieth. 




NOTHING WILL DIE. 




NOTHING WILL DIE. 



HEN will the streams be aweary of flowing 
Under my eye? 
When will the wind be aweary of blowing 
Over the sky? 
When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting? 
When will the heart be aweary of beating? 
And nature die? 
Never! oh! never! nothing will die. 
The stream flows, 
The wind blows, 
The cloud fleets, 
The heart beats, 
Nothing will die. 
Nothing will die; 
All things will change 
Through eternity. 
'Tis the world's winter; 
Autumn and summer 
Are gone long ago; 
Earth is dry to the center, 
But spring, a new comer, 
A spring rich and strange, 
Shall make the winds blow 
Round and round. 
Thro' and thro'. 
Here and there. 
Till the air 
And the ground 
Shall be fill'd with life anew. 



The world was never made ; 

It will change, but it will not fade. 

So let the wind range; 

For even and morn 

Ever will be 

Thro' eternity. 
Nothing was born; 
Nothing will die; 
All things will change. 



ALL THINGS WILL DIE. 




ALL THINGS WILL DIE. 



■>e;J|flif^LEARLY the blue river chimes in its flovvine 



Under my eve; 
Warml}' and broadly the south winds are blowing 

Over the sky. 
One after another the vi/hite clouds are fleetinor; 
Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating 
Full merrily; 
Yet all things must die. 
The stream will cease to flow; 
The wind will cease to blow; 
The clouds will cease to fleet; 
The heart will cease to beat; 
For ail things must die. 



All things must die. 
Spring will come never more. 

Oh! vanity! 
Death waits at the door. 
See! our friends are all forsaking 
The wine and merrvmaking. 
We are called — we must go. 
Laid low, very low, 
In the dark we must lie. 
The merr)' glees are still; 
The voice of the bird 
Shall no more be heard, 
Nor the wind on the hill. 

Oh ! misery ! 
Hark! death is calling 
While I speak to ye, 
The jaw is falling, 
The red cheek paling. 
The strong limbs fiiiling; 
Ice with the warm blood mixing} 
The eyeballs fixing. 
Nine times goes the passing bell: 
Ye merry souls, farewell. 



THE KRAKEN. 



The old earth 

Had a birth, 

As all men know, 

Long ago. 

And the old earth must die. 
So let the warin winds range. 
And the blue wave beat the shore; 
For even and morn 
Ye will never see 
Thro' eternity. 
All things were born. 
Ye will come never more, 
For all things must die. 



THE KRAKEN. 




'|ELOW the thunders of the upper deep; 



Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, 

His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep 

The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee 

About his shadowy sides: above him swell 

Huge sponges of millennial growth and height; 

And i-AX away into the sickly light, 

From many a wondrous grot and secret cell 

Unnumbered and enormous polypi 

Winnow with giant fans the slumbering green. 

There hath he lain for ages and will lie 

Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep, 

Until the latter fire shall heat the deep; 

Then once by man and angels to be seen, 

In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die. 




LILIAN. 



LILIAN. 




LILIAIv. 



IRY, fairy Lilian, 

Flitting, fairy Lilian, 
When I ask her if she love me. 
Clasps her tiny hands above me, 
.~pi Laughing all she can; 

She'll not tell me if she love me, 
Cruel little Lilian. 



When my passion seeks 
Pleasance in love-sighs, 
She, looking thro' and thro' me 
Thoroughly to undo me, 
Smiling, never speaks: 
Till the lightning laughters dimple 
So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple. 
From beneath her gather'd wimple 
Glancing with black-beaded eyes, 
The baby-roses in her cheeks; 
Then away she flies. 



III. 

Prythee weep. May Lilian! 
Gayety without eclipse 

Wearieth me, Ma^' Lilian: 
Thro' my very heart it thrilleth 

When from crimson-threaded lips 
Silver-treble laughter trilleth 

Prythee weep, May Lilian. 



IV. 

Praying all I can, 
If prayers will not hush thee, 

Airy Lilian, 
Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, 

Fairy Lilian. 



10 



ISABEL. 




ISABEL. 



.;^ YES not down-dropped nor over-bright, but fed 
;V, With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, 
~^' Clear, without heat, undying, tended by 

Pure vestal thoughts in the translucent fane 
Of her still spirit; locks not wide dispread, 
Madonna-wise on either side her head; 
Sweet lips, whereon perpetually did reign 
The summer calm of golden charity, 
Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood, 

Revered Isabel, the crown and head, 
The stately flower of female fortitude. 

Of perfect wifehood, and pure lowlihead, 



II. 

The intuitive decision of a bright 

And thorough-edged intellect to part 

Error from crime; a prudence to withhold; 

The laws of marriage character'd in gold 
Upon the blancheti tablets of her heart; 
A love still burning upward, giving light 
To read those laws; an accent very low 
In blandishment, but a most silver flow 

Of subtle-paced counsel in distress, 
Right to the lieart and brain, tho' undescricd. 

Winning its way with extreme gentleness 
Thro' all the outworks of suspicious pride; 
A courage to endure and to obey; 
A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway, 
Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life, 
The queen of marriage, a most perfect v^'ife. 



The mellowed reflex of a winter moon ; 
A clear stream flowing with a muddy one. 
Till in its onward current it absorbs 

With swifter m6vement and in purer light 



MAR/ANA. 



11 



The vexed eddies of its wayward brother: 
A leaning and upbearing parasite, 

Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite 
With clustei'd flower-bells and ambrosial oibs 
Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each other — 
Sh:ul()w forth thee: — the world hath not another 
(Tho' all her fairest forms arc types of thee, 
And thou of God in thy great charity) 
Of such a finish'd, chasten'd purity. 



MARIANA. 




' Mariana in the moated g^rane^e." — Memure tor Measure. 



ITH blackest moss the flower-plots 

Were thickly crusted, one and all: 
The rusted nails fell from the knots 

That held the peach to the gable wall. 
The broken sheds looked sad and strange: 

Unlifted was the clinking latch; 

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead !" 

Her tears fell with the dews at even; 

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; 
She could not look on the sweet heaven, 

Either at inorn or eventide. 
After the flitting of the bats, 

When thickest dark did trance the sky, 
She drew her casement curtain by, 
And glanced athwart the glooming flats. 
She only said, " The niglit is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said; 4 

She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead!" 



12 MARIANA. 



Upon the middle of tlie night, 

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow; 
The cock sung out an hour ere light: 

From the dark feu the oxen's low 
Came to her: without hope of change, 
In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn, 
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, " The day is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary 
I would that. I were dead!" 

About a stone-cast from the wall 

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept. 
And o'er it many, round and small, 

The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. 
Hard by a poplar shook alway, 

All silver-green with gnarled bark : 
For leagues no other tree did mark 
The level waste, the rounding gray. 
She only said, " My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, "I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead !" 

And ever when the moon was low, 

And the shrill winds were up and away, 
In the white curtain, to and fro, 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
But when the moon was very low, 

And wild winds bound within their cell, 
The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, " The night is dreary. 

He cometh not," she said; 
She said, " I am aweary, awearj', 
I would that I were dead !" 

All day within the dreamy house. 

The doors upon their hinges creak'd; 

The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse 
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd. 



MAH/AA'A. 



13 



Or from the crevice peer'd about. 

Old faces glimmered through the doors, 
Old footsteps trod the upper floors, 
Old voices called her from without. 

She only said, " My life is dreary, 

He Cometh not," she said; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead!" 

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, 

The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour 
When the thick-moated sunbeam lay 
Athwart tiie chambers, and the day 
Was sloping toward his western bower. 
Then, said she, " I am very dreary, 

He will not come," she said; 
She wept, " I am aweary, aweary, 
O God, that I were dead !" 







14 



TO — 



TO 




LEAR-HEADED friend, whose joyful scorn, 
Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain 
The knots that tangle human creeds. 
Tlie wounding cords that bind and strain 
The heart until it bleeds, 
Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn 

Roof not a glance so keen as thine: 
If aught of prophec}' be mine, 
Thou wilt not live in vain. 



II. 

Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit; 

Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow: 

Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now 
With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. 
Nor martyr Hames, nor trenchant swords 

Can do away that ancient lie; 

A gentler death shall Falsehood die, 
Shot thro' and thro' with cunning words. 



Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch, 

Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need, 
Thy kingl)' intellect shall feed, 
Until she be an athlete bold. 

And weary with a finger's touch 

Those writhed limbs of lightning speed; 

Like that straflge angel which of old. 
Until the breaking of the light. 

Wrestled with wandering Israel, 

Past Yabbok brook the livelong night, 

And heaven's mazed signs stood still 
In the dim tract of Penuel. 




MADELINE. 



15 



MADELINE. 




HOU art not steep'd in golden languors, 
No tranced summer calm is thine, 
Ever varying ISladeline. 
Thro' light and shadow tiiou dost range, 
Sudden glances, sweet and strange, 

Delicious spites and darling angers, 
And airy forms of flitting change. 



II. 



Smiliitg, frowning, evermore, 
Thou art perfect in love-lore. 
Revealings deep and clear are thine 
Of wealthy smiles: but who may know 
Whether smile or frown be fleeter? 
Whether smile or frown be sweeter, 

Who may know? 
Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow 
Light-looming over ej'es divine. 
Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine, 
Ever varying Madeline. 
Thy smile and frown are not aloof 
From one another, 
Each to each is dearest brother; 
Hues of the silken sheeny woof 
Momently shot into each other. 
All the mvstery is thine; 
Smiling, frowning, evermore. 
Thou art perfect in love-lore. 
Ever varying Madeline, 



III. 



A subtle, sudden flame, 

By veering passion fann'd. 

About thee breaks and dances: 
When I would kiss thy hand, 

The flush of anger'd shame 



\% 



^jj%i&tlxi^,^r^ 




SONG.— THE OWL. 



17 




SONG.— THE OWL. 



HEN cats run home and light is come, 
And dew is cold upon the ground, 
And the fai-off stream is dumb. 
And the whirring sail goes round, 
And the whirring sail goes round; 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 



When merry milkmaids click, the latch, 

And rarely smells the new-mown hay, 
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch 
Twice or thrice his roundelay, 
Twice or thrice his roundelay; 

Alone and warming his five wits. 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 




SECOND SONG. 

TO THE SAME. 
I. 

I^IIY tuwhits are luH'tl I wot, 
l„- Th)- tuwhoos of yesternight, 
^ Which upon the dark afloat. 
So took echo with delight, 
So took echo with delight. 

That her voice untuneful grown, 
Wears all dav a fainter tone. 



I would mock thy chaunt anew 

But I cannot mimic it; 
Not a whit of thy tnwhoo. 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 

With a lengthen'd loud halloo, 
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuvvhoo-o-o. 



18 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 



k^^^^^^!s^^^^^^k;'::?:a:';akw:*:'.^;:*:;*:'»'^^.^^^^^^^^^^^^^si 






\%x^n{\m% of \\\% Jratiian ^igfils. 






if:^. ■; 




ii'. 






-^=OijiiDmiii|ttC>=4- 




II EN the breeze of a jo3fuI dawn blev/ free 

In the silken sail of infancy, 
The tide of time flowed back with me, 

The forward-flowing tide of time; 
Antl many a sheeny summer morn, 
Adown the Tigris I was borne, 
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold, . 
High-walled gardens green and old; 
True Mussulman was I and sworn, 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



Anight my shallop, rustling thro' 
The low and bloomed foliage, drove 
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove 
The citron-shadows hi the blue: 
By garden porches on the brim. 
The costly doors flung open wide, 
Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim, 
And broider'd sofas on each side: 
In sooth it was a goodly time. 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guard 

The outlet, did I turn away 

The boat-head down a broad canal 




"Anight m_v shallop, rustling thro, 
The low and bloomed foliage." 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 



19 



From the main river sluiced, where all 
The sloping of the moon-lit sward 
Was damask-work and deep inlay 
Of braided blooms unmown, which crept 
Adown to where the water slept. 
A goodly place, a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 




A motion from the river won 
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on 
M}' shallop thro' the star-strown calm, 
Until anotlier night in night 
I enter'd, from the clearer light, 
Imbowered vaults of pillar'd palm, 
Imprisoning sweets, which as they clomb 
Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome 
Of hollow boughs. — A goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of gfood Haroun Alraschid. 



20 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 

Still onward ; and the clear canal 
Is rounded to as clear a lake. 
From the green rivage many a fall 
Of diamond rillets musical, 
Thro' little crystal arches low 
Down from the central fountain's flow 
Fall'n silver-chiming, seem'd to shake 
The sparkling flints beneath the prow. 
A goodly place, a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Above thro' many a bowery turn 
A walk with varj'-color'd shells 
Wander'd engrain'd. On either side 
All round about the fragrant marge 
From fluted vase and brazen urn 
In order, eastern flowers large. 
Some dropping low their ciimson bells , 

Half-closed, and others stucfded wide 
With disks and tiars, fed the time 
With odor in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Far off, and where the lemon-grove 
In closest coverture upsprung, 
The living airs of middle nignt 
Died round the bulbul as he sung; 
Not he : but something which possess'd 
The darkness of the world, delight, 
Life, anguisli, death, immortal lo\ c, 
Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd, 
Apart from place, withholding time. 
But flattering the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Black the garden-bowers and grots 

Slumber'd: the solemn palms were ranged 

Above, unwoo'd of summer wind: 

A sudden splendor from behind 

Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold-green- 

And, flowing rapidly between 

Their interspaces, counlerchanged 

The level lake with diamond-plots 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 21 

Of iliirk and bright. A lovelvtime, 
For it was in tlie golden prime 
Of good Harouii Ahnschid. 

Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, 
Distinct witii vivid stars inlaid, 
Grew darker from that under-flame: 
So, leaping lightly from the boat, 
With silver anchor left afloat,* 
In marvel \vhence that glory came 
Upon me, as in sleep I sank 
In cool soft turf upon the bank, 

Entranced with that place and time, 

So wortiiy of the golden prime 
Of good Haioun Alraschid. 



Thence tliro' the garden I was drawn — • 
A realm of pleasance, many a mound, 
Anil many a shadow-chequer'd lawn 
Full of the city's stilly sound, 
And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round 
The stately cedar, tamarisks. 
Thick rosaries of scented thorn, 
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks 

Graven with emblems of the time. 
In honor of the golden priine 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Witli dazed vision unawares 
From the long alley's latticed shade 
Emerged, I came upon the great 
Pavilion of the Caliphat. 
Right to the carven cedarn doors, 
Flung inward over spangled floors, 
Broad-based flights ot marble stairs 
Ran up with golden balustrade. 
After the fashion of the time, 
And himior of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

The fourscore windows all alight 
As with the quintessence of flame, 
A million tapers flaring bright 



22 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 



From twisted silvers lookM to sliame 
The hollow-vaulted dark, and streamed 
Upon the mooned domes aloof 
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd 
Hundreds of crescents on the roof 

Of night new-risen, that marvelous time, 
To celebrate the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Then stole I up, and trancedly 

Gazed on the Persian girl alone, 

Serene, with argent-lidded e\'es 

Amorous, and lashes like to rays 

Of darkness, and a brow of pearl 

Tressed witli redolent ebony.^ 

Ifi many a dark delicious curl, 

Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone; 
The sweetest lady of the time, 
Well worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Six columns, three on either side. 
Pure silver, nnderpropt a rich 
Throne of the massive ore, fiom which 
Down-drooped, in many a floating fold, 
Eiigarlanded and diaper'd 
With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. 
Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirred 
With merriment of kinglv pride, 
Sole star of all that place and time, 
I saw him — in his golden prime. 
The Good Haroun Alraschid. 





"Then stole I up, and trancedly 
Gazed on the Persian girl alone.' 



ODE TO MEMORi: 



23 



ODE TO MEMORT. 



ADDRESSED TO 




HOU who stealest fire 
* From the fountains of the past, 
To glorify tlie present; oln, haste 
Visit my low desire! 
Strengthen me, enlighten me! 
I faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



Come not as thou earnest of late, 
Flinging the gloom of yesternight 
On the white day; but roljed in softened light 

Of orient state. 
Whilome thou earnest with the morning mist, 

Even as a maid, whose stately brow 
The dew-impearl'd winds of dawn have kissVI, 
When, she, as thou. 
Stays on iier floating locks the lovely freight 
Of overflowing blooms and earliest shoots 
Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits, 
Which ill wintertide shall star 
The black earth with brilliance rare. 



Whilome thou earnest with the morning mist. 

And with the evening cloud, 
Show-ering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast 
(Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind 

Never grow sere. 
When rooted in the garden of the mind. 
Because the}' are the earliest of the year). 

Nor was the night thy shroud. 
In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest 
Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope. 



2A 



ODE TO MEMORT. 



The eddying of her garments caught from thee 
The light of tliy great presence; and the cope 

Of the half-attain'd futurity, 

Though deep not fathomless, 
Was cloven with the million stars which tremble 
O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. 
Small thought was there of life's distress; 
For sure she deem'd no mist of earth could dull 
Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and beautiful; 
Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres. 
Listening the lordly music flowing from 
The illimitable years. 

strengthen me, enlighten ine! 

1 faint in this obscuritv, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



Come forth I charge thee, arise. 

Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes! 

Thou comest not with shows of flaunting \'ines 
Unto mine inner eye, 
Divinest Memory! 

Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall 
Which ever sounds and shines 

A pillar of white light upon the wall 
Of ])urple cliffs, aloof descried: 
Come from the woods that belt tlie gray hill-side, 
The seven elms, the poplars four 
That stand beside my father's door, 





" Pour round mine eai"S the livelong bleat 
Of tlie tliick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds.' 



ODE TO MEMOHV. 25 



AwA chiefly from the brook that loves 
To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, 
Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, 
Drawiiif; into his narrow earthen urn, 

In every elbow and turn, 
The lilter'd tribute of the rough woodland. 

O! hither lead thy feet! 
Puur round mine ears the livelong bleat 
Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds, 

Upon the ridged wolds, 
When the flrst matin-song hath waken'd loud 
Over the dark dewy earth forlorn. 
What time the amber morn 
Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud. 



Large dowries doth the raptured eye 
To the young spirit present 
When first she is wed; 

And like a bride of old 
In triumph led, 

With music and sweet showers 
Of festal flowers, 
Unto the dwelling she must sway. 
Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, 
In setting round thy first experiment 

With royal frame-work of wrought gold; 
Needs must thou dearly love thy first essay. 
And foremost in thy various gallery 
Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls 
Upon the storied walls; 
For the discovery 
And newness of thine art so pleased thee. 
That all which thou hast drawn of fairest 

Or boldest since, but lightly weighs 
With thee unto the love thou bearest 
The first-born of thy genius. Artist-like, 
Ever reliiing thou dost gaze 
On the prime labor of thine early days: 
No matter what the sketch might be; 
Whether the high field on the bushless Pike, 
Or even a sand-built ridge 
Of heaped hills that mountl the sea. 
Overblown with murmurs harsh. 



26 



ODE TO MEMORY. 



Or even a lowly cottage whence we see 

Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enormous marsh, 

Where from the frequent hridge, 

Like einbleins of infinity. 

The trenched waters run from sky to sky; 

Or a garden bower'd close 

With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, 

Long alleys falling down to twilight grots, 

Or opening upon level plots 

Of crowned lilies, standing near 

Purple-spiked lavender: 

Whither in after life retired 

From brawling storms. 

From weary wind, 

With 3'outhfiil fiincy reinspired, 

We may hold converse with all forms 
Of the manj'-sided mind. 
And those whom passion hath not blinded, 
Subtle-thoughted, myriad- minded. 



Mv friend, with you to live alone, 
Were how much better than to own 
A crown, a sceptre, and a throne! 

strengthen me, enlighten me! 

1 faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



SOJVG. 



27 




so JVC. 



SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours 
DvvelHng amid these yellowing bowers: 

To himself he talks; 
For at eventide, listening earnestly, 
At his work you may hear him sob and sigh 

In the walks; 

Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks 
Of the mouldering flowers: 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly, 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, 

As a sick man's room when he taketh repose 

An hour before death; 
My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves 
At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, 
And the breath 

Of the fading edges of box beneath. 
And the vear's last rose. 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly. 
Heavily hangs the hollvhock, 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



28 



THE POET. 




THE POET. 



HE poet in a golden clime was born, 

With golden stars above; 
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of 
scorn, 

The love of love. 



He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill, 

He saw thro' his own soul. 
The marvel of the everlasting will, 

An open scroll, 

Before him lay : with echoing feet he threaded 

The secretest walks of fame: 
The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed 

And wing'd with flame, 



Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue, 

And of so fierce a flight, 
From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung, 

Filling with light 

AnrI vagrani; melodies the winds which bore 

Them earthward till they lit; 
Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower 

The fruitful wit 

Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew, 

Where'er they fell, behold. 
Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew 

A flower all gold. 



And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling 

The winged shafts of truth. 
To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring 

Of Hope and Youth. 



THE POET. 



29 



So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, 

Tho' one did fling the fire. 
Hejven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams 

Of high desire. 

Thus truth was multipHed on truth, the world 

Like one great garden show'd, 
And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurPd, 

Rare sunrise flow'd. 

Ami Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise 

Her beautiful bold brow. 
When rites and forms before his burning eyes 

Melted like snow. 

There was no blood upon her maiden robes 

Sunn'd by those orient skies; 
But round about the circles of the globes 

Of her keen eyes 

And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame 

Wisdom, a name to shake 
All evil dreams of power — a sacred name. 

And when she spake, 

Her words did gather thunder as they ran, 
And as the lightning to the thunder 

Which follows it, riving the spirit of man, 
Making earth wonder. 



So was their meaning to her words. No sword 
Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, 

But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word 
She shook the world. 



30 



THE POETS MIND. 




THE POET'S MIND. 



L|^^^^aEX not thou the poet's mind 
~~ ^ ■ * , With thy shallow wit: 

f^i Vex not thou the poet's mind; 
For thou canst not fathom it. 
<0 Clear and bright it should be ever, 
■;; ' Flowing like a crystal river; 

Bright as light, and clear as wind. 



Dark brow'd sophist, come notanear; 
All the place is holy gi-ound; 
Hollow smile and frozen sneer 

Come not here. 
Holy water will I pour 
Into every spicy flower 
Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. 
The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer. 
In your ej'e there is death, 
There is frost in your breath 
Which would blight the plants. 
Where you stand you cannot hear 
From the groves within 
The wild-bird's din. 
In tile heart of the garden the merry bird chants, 
It would fall to the ground if you came in. 
In the middle leaps a fountain 
Like sheet lightning, 
Ever brightening 
With a low melodious thunder. 
All dav and all night it is ever drawn 
From the brain of the purple mountain 
Which stands in the distance yonder: 
It springs on a level of bowery lawn, 
And the mountain draws it from Heaven above. 
And it sings a song of undying love; 
And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full, 
You never would hear it; your ears are so dull; 
So keep where you are: you are foul witli sin; 
It would shrink to the earth if you came in. 



SEA FAIRIES. 



31 




JfiwH yv^ jAA :^ ^ :^ ^ ^-l^ ^ ;^ ^ ^:^ J(^ -^ ^ ^ i?^ 



^j,^ 



&'S. 



x,i ^/_-^ V Vi^V-f Vj- iv„"^-' 



^/" "^'' K^ ■^'^»^■^ 



j<X"lHxy^v r-T ^-T. T'X;;J^'.-L J^^ J^X-J^"L^^Lj'rT.-J--L-r-^_-J<^!3>i 



-^^oSiiijMaijo^- 




LOW sail'd the weary mariners and saw, 
Betwixt the green brink and the running foam, 
Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest 
To Httle harps of gold; and while they mused. 
Whispering to each other half in fear. 
Shrill music reachVl them on the middle sea. 
Whither away, whither away, whither away? fly on more. 
Whither away from the high green field, and the happy 

blossoming shore? 
Dav and night to the billow the fountain calls: 
Down shower the gambolling waterfalls 
From wandering over the lea: 
Out of the live-green heart of the dells 
They freshen the silvery-crimson shells, 
And thick with white hells the clover-hill swells 

High over the full-toned sea: 
O hither, come hither and furl your sails. 
Come hither to me and to ine: 
Hitiier, come hither and frolic and play; 
Here it is only the mew that wails; 
We will sing to you all the day: 
Mariner, mariner, furl your sails, 
For here are the blissful downs and dales. 
And merrily, merrily carol the gales. 
And the spangle dances in bight and bay, 
And the rainbow forms and flies on the land 
Over the islands free; 
And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand: 



32 



TO y. M. K. 



Hither, come hither and see; 
And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave, 
And sweet is the color of cove and cave. 
And sweet shall your welcome be: 
O hither, come hither, and be our lords 
For merry brides are we: 

We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words: 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
With pleasure and love and jubilee: 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords 
Runs up the ridged sea. 
Who can light on as happy a shore 
All the world o'er, all the world o'er? 

Whither awav? listen and stay: mariner, mariner, fly no 
more. 



'^ 



A.,. 



'S^'t&'rEL 



^^ 



TO y. M. K. 




Y hope and heart is with thee — thou wilt be 
A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest 
To scare church-harpies from the master's feast; 
Our dusted velvets have much need of thee: 
Thou art no Sabbath drawler of old saws, 
Dislill'd from some worm-canker'd homily ; 
But spurr'd at heart with fieriest energy 
To embattail and to wall about thy cause 
With iron-worded proof, hating to hark 
The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone 
Half God's good Sabbath, while the worn-out clerk 
Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from a throne 
Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark 
Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark. 




THE DESERTED HOUSE. 



33 




THE DESERTED HOUSE. 




IFE and Thought have gone away 



Side by side, 

Leaving door and windows wide: 
Careless tenants they! 

All within is dark as night: 
In the windows is no light; 
And no murmur at the door, 
So frequent on its hinge before. 



Close the door, the shutters close, 
Or thro' the windows we shall see 
The nakedness and vacanc)' 

Of the dark deserted house. 



M 



A DIRGE. 



Come away : no more of mirth 
Is here or merry-making sound. 

Tlie house was buikled of tlie earth, 
And shall fiill again to ground. 

Come away: for Life and Thought 

Here no longer dwell; 
But in a city glorious — 
A great and distant cit}' — have bought 

A mansion incorruptible. 
Would they could have staid with us! 




f^^^fe OW is done thy long day's work; 
"^•iwift^ Fold thy palms across thy breast, 
Tt^^^fe Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. 
J\^(Sj Let them rave, 

r Shadows of the silver birk 

Sweep the green that folds thy grave. 
Let them rave. 



Thee nor carketh care nor slander; 
Nothing but the small cold worm 
Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 

Let them rave. 
Light and shadow ever wander 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



A DIRGE. 35 



Thou will not turn upon thy bed , 
Chanteth not the brooding bee 
Sweeter tones than calumny? 

Let them rave. 
Thou wilt never raise thine head 
From the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

Crocodiles wept tears for thee; 

The woodbine and eglatere 

Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. 

Let them rave. 
Rain makes music in the tree 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

Round thee blow, self-pleached deep, 
Bramble-roses, faint and pale, 
And long purples of the dale. 

Let them rave. 
These in every shower creep 
Thro' the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

The gold-eyed kingcups fine; 
Tlie frail bluebell peereth over 
Rare broidry of the purple clover. 

Let them rave. 
Kings have no such couch as thine. 
As the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

Wild words wander here and there; 
God's great gift of speech abus'd 
Makes thy memory confus'd : 

But let them rave. 
The bain? -cricket carols clear 
In the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



36 



A CHARACTER. 




A CHARACTER. 

cf^^^^ITH a half-glance upon the sky, 

At night he said, "The wanderings 
Of this most intricate Universe 
Teach me the nothingness of things," 
Yet could not all creation pierce 
Beyond the bottom of his eye. 

He spake of beauty : that the dull 

Saw no divinity in grass. 

Life in dead stones, or spirit in air; 

Then looking as 'twere in a glass. 

He smoothM his chin and sleek'd his hair, 

And said the earth was beautiful. 

He spake of virtue: not the gods 

More purely, when they wish to charm 

Pallas and Juno sitting by: 

And with a sweeping of the arm, 

And a lack-lustre deiid-blue eye, 

Devolv'd his rounded periods. 

Most delicately hour by hour 
He canvass'd human mysteries. 
And trod on silk, as if the winds 
Blew his own praises in his eyes. 
And stood aloof from other minds 
In impotence of fancied power. 



With lips depress'd as he were meek, 
Himself unto himself he sold; 
Upon hnnself himself did feed : 
Quiet, dispassionate, and cold, 
And other than his forn> of creed, 
With chisell'd features clear and sleeks 




' Wherefore those dim looks of thine, 
Shadowy dreaming Adeline f " 



ADELINE. 



37 



lM 




ADELINE. 



TERY of mysteries, 
Faintly smiling Adeline, 
Scarce of earth nor all divme, 
or unhappy, nor at rest. 
But beyond expression fair 
With thy floating flaxen hair; 
Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes 
Take the heart from out my breast. 
Wherefore those dim looks of thine, 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline? 

Whence that aery bloom of thine, 

Like a lilj' which the sun 
Looks thro' in his sad decline, 
And a rose-bush leans upon. 
Thou that faintly smilest still, 
As a Naiad in a well, 
Looking at the set of day, 
Or a phantom two hours old 

Of a maiden past a'way. 
Ere the placid lips be cold? 
Wherefore those faint smiles of thine. 
Spiritual Adeline? 



What hope or fear or joy is thine? 
Who talketh with thee, Adeline? 
For sure thou art not all alone. 

Do beating hearts of salient springs 
Keep measure with thine own? 

Hast thou heaixl the butterflies 
What they say betwixt their wings? 
Or in stillest evenings 
With what voice the violet woos 
To his heart the sih'er dews? 
Or when little airs arise, 
How the merry bluebell rings 

To the mosses underneath? 



38 



ADELINE. 




Hast Ihoii look'd upon the breath 
Of the hhes at sunrise? 
Wherefore that faint smile of thine, 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline? 



Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, 
Some spirit of a crimson rose 
In love with thee forgets to close 
His curtains, wasting odorous sighs 
All night long on darkness blind. 
What aileth thee? whom waitest thou 
With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow, 

And those dew-lit eyes of thine. 
Thou faint smiler, Adeline? 



Lovest thou the doleful wind 

When thou gazest at the skies? 
Doth the low-tongued Orient 

Wander from the side of the morn. 
Dripping with Sabaian spice 
On thy pillow, lowly bent 

W'ith melodious airs lovelorn, 
Breathing light against thy face 



SUPPOSED COXFESSIO.VS. 



39 



While his loclcs a-ch-opjjing twin'il 

Roiin'.l thy neck in subtle ring- 
Make ,1 carcanet of rays, 

And ye talk together still, 
In the language wherewith Spring 
Letters cowslips on the hill? 
Hence that look and smile of thine, 
Spiritual Adeline. 



*i t>'S5s°-^^!^a!ilii°=c=4" 



SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS 
I 

OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND NOT IN UNITY WITH ITSELF 




M'--' 



GOD ! my God ! have mercy now. 
I faint, I fall. Men say that thou 
Didst (lie for me, for such as ;«<?, 
Patient of ill, and death, and scorn, 
And that my sin was as a tliorn 
Among the thorns that girt thy brow, 
Wounding thy soul. — Tliat even now. 
In this extremest misery 
Of ignorance, I should require 

A sign I and if a bolt of fire 

Would rive the slumberous summer noon 

While I do prav to thee alone, 

Think my belief would stronger grow! 

Is not my human pride brought low? 

The boastings of mv spirit still? 

The joy I had in my free will 

All cold, and dead, and corpse-like grown? 

And what is left to mc, but thou, 

And faith in thee? Men pass me by; 

Christians with happv countenances — 

And children all seem full of thee! 

And \vomen smile with saintlike glances 

Like thine own mother's when she bow'd 

Above thee, on that happv morn 

When angels spake to men aloud, 

And thou and peace to earth were born. 



40 SUPPOSED CONFESSIOXS. 

Goodwill to me as well as all — 

— I one of them: my brothers they: 

Brothers in Christ — a world of peace 

A confidence, day after day; 
And trust and hope till things should cease, 

And then one Heaven receive us all. 



How sweet to have a common faith! 
To hold a common scorn of death! 
And at a burial to hear 

The creaking cords which wound and eat 
Into mv human heart, whene'er 
Earth goes to earth, with grief, not fear, 

With hopeful grief, were passing sweet! 
A grief not uninform'd, and dull, 
Hearted with hope, of hope as full 
As is the blood with life, or night 
And a dark cloud with rich moonlight. 
To stand beside a grave, and see 
The red small atoms wherewith we 
Are built, and smile in calm, and say — 
" These little motes and grains shall be 
Clothed on with immortality 
More glorious than the noon of day. 

All that is pass'd into the flowers. 
And into beasts and other men. 
And all the Norland whirlwind shower* 
From open vaults, and all the sea 
O'erwashes with sharp salts, again 
Shall fleet together all, and be 
Indu'd with immortality." 

Thrice happy state again to be 
The trustful infant on the knee! 
Who lets his waxen fingers play 
About his mother's neck, and knov/s 
Nothing beyond his mother's eyes. 
They comfort him by night and day, 
They light his little life alway; 
He hath no thought of coming woes; 
He hath no care of life or death. 
Scarce outward signs of joy aris", 
Because the Spirit of happiness 
And perfect rest so inward is; 



SUPPOSED COXFESS/OJVS. 41 



And loveth so his innocent heart, 

Her temple and her place of birth, 

Where she would e\'er wish to dwell. 

Life of the fountain there, beneath 

Its salient springs, and far apart, 

Hating to wander out on earth, 

Or breathe into the hollow air. 

Whose chilliness would make visible 

Her subtile, warm, and golden breath. 

Which mixing with the infant's blood, 

Full fills him with beatitude. 

O sure it is a special care 

Of God, to fortif)' from doubt. 

To arm in proof, and guard about 

With triple mailed trust, and clear 

Delight, the infant's dawning year. 

Would tiiat my gloomed fancy were 

As thine, my mother, when with brows 

Propp'd on thy knees, my hands upheld 

In thine, I listen'd to thy vows. 

For me outpour'd in holiest prayer — 

For me unworthy! — and beheld 

The mild deep eyes uprais'd, that knew 

Tiie beauty and repose of faith. 

And the clear spirit shining through. 

O wherefore do we grow awry 

From roots which strike so deep? why dare 

Paths in the desert? Could not I 

Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt, 

To th' earth — until the ice would melt 

Here, and I feel as thou hast felt? 

What devil had the heart to scathe 

Flowers thou hadst rear'd — to brush the dew 

From thine own lily, when thy grave 

Was deep, my mother, in the clay? 

Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I 

So little love for thee? But svhy 

Prevail'd not thy pure prayers? Why pray 

To one who heeds not, who can save 

But will not? Great in faith, and strong 

Against the grief of circumstance 

Wert thou, and jet unheard? What if 

Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive 

Thro' utter dark a full-sail'd skiff, 

Unpiloted i' the echoing dance 



42 SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS. 

Of reboant whirlwinds, stoojaing low 
Unto the death, not sunk! I know 
At matins and at evensong, 
That thou, il thou wert yet alive, 
In deep and daily prayers would'st strive 
To reconcile me with thy God. 
, Albeit, my hope is gray and cold 

At heart, thou wouldest murmur still — 

" Bring this lamb back into thy fold, 

My Loi-d, if so it be thy will." 

Would'st tell me I must brook the rod, 

And chastisement of human pride: 

That pride, the sin of devils, stood 

Betwixt me and the light of God ! 

That hitherto I had defied. 

And had rejected God^that Grace 

Would drop from his o'erbrimniing love. 

As manna on niv wilderness. 

If I would pray — that God would move 

And strike the hard, hard i.:ck, and thence. 

Sweet in their utmost bitterness, 

Would issue tears of penitence 

Which would keep green hope's life. Alas! 

I tliink that pride hath now no place 

Or sojourn in me. I am void, 

Dark, formless, utterly destroy'd. 

Why not believe then ? Why not yet 
Anchor thy frailty there, where man 
Hath mooi-'d and rested? Ask the sea 
At inidnight, when the crisp slope waves 
After a tempest, rib and fret 
The broad-imbased beach, why he 
Slumbers not like a mountain tarn? 
Wherefore his ridges are not curls 
And ripples of an inland meer? 
Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can 
Draw down into his vexed pools 
All that blue heaven which hues and paves 
The other? I am too forlorn, 
Too shaken: my own weakness fools 
Mv judgment, and my spirit whirls, 
Mov'd from beneath with doubt and fear. 



SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS. 



43 



" Yet," said I, in mv morn of youth, 
The unsun'd freshness of my strength 
When I went forth in quest of truth, 
" It is man's privilege to doubt. 
If so be that from doubt at length, 
Truth may stand forth unmov'd of change, 
An image with profulgent brows, 
And perfect limbs, as from the storm 
Of running fires and fluid rangre 
Of lawless airs at last stood out 
This excellence and solid form 
Of constant beauty. For the ox 
Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills 
The horned valleys all about. 
And hollows of the fringed hills 
In summer heats, with placid lows 
Unfearing, till his own blood flows 
About his hoof. And in the flocks 








The lamb rejoiceth in the year, 

And raceth freely with his fere. 

And answers to his mother's calls 

From the flower'd furrow. In a time. 

Of which he wots not, run short pains 

Thro' his warm heart, and then, from whence 

He knows not, on his light there falls 

A shadow ; and his native slope 

Where he was wont to leap and climb, 

Floats from his sick and filmed eyes. 

And something in the darkness draws 

His forehead earthward, and he dies. 

Shall man live thus, in joy and hope 

As a young lamb, who cannot dream. 

Living, but that he shall live on? 



44 HERO TO LEANDER. 

Shall we not look into the laws 
Of life and death, and things that seem 
And things that be, and analyze 
» Our double nature, and compare 

All creeds till we have found the one, 
If one there be? " Ay me! I fear 
All may not doubt, but everywhere 
Some must clasp idols. Yet, my God, 
Whom call I Idol ? Let thj- dove 
Shadow me over, and my sins 
Be unremember'd, and thy love 
Enlighten me. O teach me yet 
Somewhat before the heavv clod 
Weighs on me, and the busy fret 
Of that sharp-headed woiin begins 
In the gross blackness underneath. 

O weary life! O weary death! 
O spirit and heart made desolate! 
O damned vacillatinsf state! 



-I'^C^Se*^: ^oIiI$°<:=^- 



HERO TO LEANDER. 

^T^ GO not vet, mv love! 

The night is dark and vast; 
The white moon is hid in her heaven above, 

And the waves climb high and fast. 
O, kiss me, kiss me, once again, 

Lest thy kiss should be the last! 
O kiss me ere we part; 
Grow closer to my heart) 
My heart is warmer surely than the bosom of the main 
O jov! O bliss of blisses! 

My heart of hearts art thou. 
CoiTie bathe me with thy kisses, 

My e^'elids and my brow. 
Hark how the wild rain hisses, 
And the loud sea roars below. 

Thy heart beats through thy rosy limbs, 
So gladly doth it stir; 
Thine eye in droDS of gladness swims. 




HERO TO LEANDER. 



45 



I have batli'd thee with the pleasant myrrh; 
Thy locks are dripping balm: 
Thou shalt not wander hence to-night, 

I'll stay thee with my kisses. 
To-night the roaring brine 

Will rend thy golden tresses; 
The ocean with the morrow light 
Will be both bkie and calm: 
And the billow will embrace thee with a kiss as soft as mint. 




NTo Western odors wander 

On the black and moaning sea, 
And when tiiou art dead, Leand^r, 

My soul must follow thee! ' 

O go not yet, my love I 

Thy voice is sweet and low; 
The deep salt wave breaks in above 

Those marble steps below. 
The turret-stairs are wet 

That lead into the sea. 
Leander! go not yet, 
The pleasant stars have set: 
O, go not, go not yet. 

Or I will follow thee! 



46 



THE BURIAL OF LOVE. 



THE BURIAL OF LOVE. 




IS ej'es in eclipse, 

Pale-cold his lips, 
The light of his hopes unfed, 
Mute his tongue. 
His bow unstrung 
With the tears he hath shed. 
Backward drooping his graceful head, 
Love is dead : 
His last arrow is sped : 
He hath not another dart; 
Go — carry him to his dark deathbed; 
Bury him in the cold, cold heart- 
Love is dead. 



O truest love, art thou forlorn, 

And unreveng'd ? thy pleasant wiles 

Forgotten, and thnic innocent joy? 

Shall hollow-hearte<l apathv, 
The cruellest form of perfect scorn. 
With languor of most hateful smiles, 

Forever write. 

In the wither'd light 
Of the tearless eye. 
An epitaph that all may spy ? 
No! sooner she herself shall die. 

For her the showers shall not fall. 
Nor the round sun shine that shineth to all; 

Her light shall into darkness change; 
For her the green grass shall not spring. 
Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet birds sing, 

Till Love have his full revenge. 




THE MYSTIC. 



THE Mrs TIC. 




and show'd him 



■^NGELS have talk'd with him, 
thrones: 
Ye knew him not: he was nut one of yc, 
Ye scorn'd him with an undiscciiiing scorn 
Ye could not read the marvel in liis eye. 
The still serene abstraction: he hath felt 
The vanities of after and before; 
Albeit, his spirit and his secret heart 
The stern experiences of converse lives, 
The linked woes of many a fiery change 
Had purified, and chasten'd, and made free, 
Always there stood before him, night and day, 
Of wayward vary-color'd circumstance 
The imperishable presences serene, 
Colossal, without form, or sense, or sound. 
Dim shadows but unwaning presences 
Four-fac'd to four corners of the sky; 
And yet again, three shadows, fronting one, 
One forward, one respectant, three but one; 
And yet agi^, again and evermore, 
For the two first were not, but only seem'd, 
One shadow in the midst of a great light. 
One reflex from eternity on time. 
One mighty countenance of perfect calm, 
Awful with most invariable eyes. 
For him the silent congregated hours. 
Daughters of time, divinely tall, beneath 
Severe and youthful brows, with shining eyes 
Smiling a godlike smile (the innocent light 
Of earliest youth piercVl thro' and thio' with all 
Keen knowledges of low-embowed eld) 
Upheld, and ever hold aloft the clouil 
Which droops low-hung on either gate of life. 
Both birth and death: he in the center nxt. 
Saw far on each side through the grated gates 
Most pale and clear and lovely distances. 
He often lying broad awake, and yet 
Remaining from the body, and apart 



48 



ELEGIACS. 



In intellect and power and will, hath heard 
Time flowing in the middle of the night, 
And all things creeping to a day of doom. 
How could ye know him ? Ye were vet within 
The narrower circle: he had well-nigh rcach'd 
The last, which with a region of white flame, 
Pure without heat, into a larger air 
Upburning, and an ether of black blue, 
Investeth and insrirds all other lives. 



ELEGIACS. 




f" OW-FLOWING breezes are roaming the broad valley dimmVl in 
the glooming: 
Thro' the black-stemm'd pines only the far river shines: 
Creeping thro' blossomy ruslics and bowers of rose-blowing bushes 
Down by the poplar tall ri\nlcts babble and fall. 

Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerily; the grasshopper carrolleth. clearly ; 
Deeplj' the turtle cooes; shrilly the owlet halloos; 
Winds creep: dews fall chilly: in her first sleep eartli breathes stilly: 
Over the pools in the burn water-gnat murmur and mourn. 
Sadh' the far kine loweth: the glimmering water outfloweth: 
Twin peaks shadovv'd with pine slope to the dark hyaline. 
Lovv-thron'd Hesper is stay'd between the two peaks; but the Xaiad. 
Throbbing in wild unrest holds him beneath in her breast. 
The ancient poetess singeth that Hesperus all things bringeth. 
Smoothing the wearied mind : bring me my love, Rosalind. 
Thou comest morning and even; she cometh not morning or even. 
False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my sweet Rosalind? 





' With an inner voice the river ran, 
Adown it floated a dying swan." 



THE DTING SWAN. 



49 



THE DYING SWAN. 




<s>'py 



I IE plain was giassj', wild and bare, 
Wide, wild, and open to the air. 
Which had built up everywhere 

An under-roof of doleful gray. 
With an inner voice the river ran, 
Adown it floated a dying swan, 
And loudly did lament. 
It was the middle of the day. 
Ever the weary wind went on, 

And took the reed-tops as it went. 



Some blue peaks in the distance rose. 

And white against the cold-white sky, 

Shone out their crowning snows. 
One willow over the river wept. 

And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; 

Above in the wind was the swallow, 
Chasing itself at its own wild v/ill. 
And far thro' the marish green and still 
The tangled water-courses slept. 

Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. 



The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul 

Of that waste place with joy 

Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear 

The warble was low, and full and clear; 

And floating about the under-sky. 

Prevailing in weakness the coronach stole 

Sometimes afai", and sometimes anear; 

But anon her awful jubilant voice. 

With a music strange and manifold, 

Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold ; 

As when a mighty people rejoice 

With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold. 

And the tumult of their acclaim is roll'd 

Thro' the open gates of the city afar. 

To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. 



50 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 



And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds, 
And the willow-branches hoar and dank, 
And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, 
And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank. 
And the silvery inarish-flowers that throng 
The desolate creeks and pools among. 
Were flooded over with eddying song. 



-^=cHlDti-^ig^aiij=c=4- 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 




Y heart is wasted with my woe, 
Oriana. 
' There is no rest for me below, 
^'^^^ Oriana. 

When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow, 
And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, 
Oriana, 
Alone 1 wander to and fro, 
Oriana. 

Ere the light on dark was growing, 

Oriana. 
At midnight the cock was crowing, 

Oriana : 
Winds were blowing, waters flowing, 
We heard the steeds to battle going, 

Oriana ; 
Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, 

Oriana. 



In the yew-wood black as night, 

Oriana, 
Ere I rode into the fight, 

Oriana, 
While blissful tears blinded my sight 
By star-shine and by moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I to thee my troth did plight, 

Oriana. 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 51 



She stood upon the castle wall, 

Oviana : 
She watch'd my crest among them all, 

Oriana : 
She saw me fight, she heard me call, 
When forth there slept a foeman tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween me and the castle wall 

Oriana. 



The bitter arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The false, false arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The damned arrow glanc'd aside, 
And pierc'd thy heart, my love, my bride, 

Oriana! 
Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, 

Oriana! 

Oh! narrow, narrow was the space, 

Oriana. 
Loud, loud nnig out the bugle's brays, 

Oriana. 
Oh! deathful stabs were dealt apace. 
The battle deepen'd in its place, 

Oriana; 
But I was down upon my face, 

Oriana. 

They should have stabb'd me where I laj', 

Oriana! 
How could I rise and come away, 

Oriana? 
How could I look upon the day ? 
They should have stabb'd me where I lay, 

Oriana — 
They should have trod me into clay, 

Oriana. 

O breaking heart that will not break, 

Oriana! 
O pale, pale face so sweet and meek, 

Oriana! 



52 



THE BALLAD OF OR/A.YA. 



Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, 
And then the tears run down my cheek, 

Oriana : 
What wantest thou? whom dost thou seek, 

Oriana? 

I cry aloud: none liear mv cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou comest atween me and the skies, 

Oriana. 
I feel the tears of blood arise 
Up from my heart unto my e3'es, 

Oriana. 
Within thy iicart my arrow lies, 

Oriana. 

O cursed hand ! O cursed blow ! 
Oriana! 

happy thou that liest low, 

Oriana! 
All night the silence seems to flow 
Beside me in my utter woe, 

Oriana. 
A weary, weary way I go, 

Oriana. 

When Norland winds pipe down the sea, 
Oriana, 

1 walk, I dare not think of thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, 
I dare not die and come to thee, 

Oriana. 
I hear the roaring of the sea, 

Oriana. 




'^^ 



THE MERMAN. 



53 



THE MERMAN. 





irr\ 



HO would be, 
A merman bold, 
S Sitting alone, i. 

Singingalone 
Under the sea. 
With crown of gold, 
On a throne? 



I would be a merman bold, 
I would sit and sing the whole of the day ; 
I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power; 
But at night I would roam abroad and play 
With the mermaids in and out of the rocks. 
Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower; 
And holding them back by their flowing locks 
I wiiuld kiss them often under the sea. 
And kiss them again till they kiss'd me 

Laughingly, laughingly ; 
And then we would wander away, away. 
To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high, 

Chasing each other merrily. 



There would be neither moon nor star; 

But the wave would make music above us afar — 

Low thunder and light in the magic night — 

Neither moon nor star. 
We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, 
Call to each other and whoop and cry 

All night, merrily, merrily; 
They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells, 
Laughing and clapping their hands between, 

All night, merrily, merrily: 
But I would throw to them back in mine 
Turkis and agate and almondinc 
Then leaping out upon them unseen 
I would kiss them often under the sea, 



54 



THE MERMAID. 



And kiss them aojain till they kiss VI me 

Laughingly, laughingly. 
Oh! what a happy life were mine 
Under the hollow-hung ocean green! 
Soft are the moss-beds under the sea; 
We would live merrily, merrily. 



THE MERMAID. 



HO would be 

A mermaid fair, 
Singing alone. 
Combing her hair 
Under the sea. 
In a golden curl 
With a comb of pearl, 
On a throne? 

I would be a mermaid fair; 
I would sing to myself tlie whole of the day; 
With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair; 
And still as I comb'd I would sing and sa)', 
" Who is it loves me? who loves not me? " 
1 would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall, 
Low adown, low adown. 
From under my starry sea-bud crown 

Low adown and around. 
And I should look like a fountain of gold 
Springing alone 
With a shrill inner sound, 

Over the throne 
In the midst of the hall; 
Till that great sea-snake under the sea 
From his coil'd sleeps in the central deeps 
Would slow!}' trail himself sevenfold 
Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate 
With his large calm eyes for the love of me. 
And all the mermen under the sea 
Would feel their immortality 
Die in their hearts for the love of me. 




CIRCUMSTANCE. 55 



But at night I would wander away, away, 

I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks, 
And lightly vault from the throne and l^lay 
With the mermen in and out of tlie rocks. 
We would run to and fro, and hide and seek. 

On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells. 
Whose silvery spikes are nigl-iest the sea. 
But if any came neai' I would call, and shriek. 
And adown the steep like a wave I would leap 

From the diamond-ledges that jut fiom the dells; 
For I would not be kiss'd by all who woidd list, 
Of the bold merrv mermen under the sea; 
They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me. 
In the purple twilights under the sea; 
But the king of them all would carry me. 
Woo me, and win me, and marry me. 
In the branching jaspers under the sea; 
Then all the dry pied things that be 
In the hueless mosses under the sea 
Would curl round my silver feet silently, 
All looking up for the love of me. 
And if I should carol alouil, from aloft 
All things that are forked, and horned, and soft 
Woukl lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea, 
All looking down for the love of me. 



— ^^*$;:&*S5<— • 



CIR C UMS TANCE. 



Two children in two neighbor villages 
Playing mad pranks along the healthy leas; 
Two strangers meeting at a a festival; 
Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall; 
Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease; 
Two graves grass-green beside a gray church- 
tower, 
Wash'd with still rains, and daisy-blossom'd; 
Two children in one hamlet born and bred; 
So runs the round of life from hour to iTour. 



56 



LOVE AND DEATH.— TO JULIET. 



LOVE AND DEATH. 




IIAT time the mighty moon was gathering light 
Love pac\l the tliymy plots of Paradise, 
And all about him roll'd his lustrous eyes: 
When, turning round a cassia, full in view, 
Death, walking all alone beneath a yew, 
And talking to himself, first met his sight: 
" You must begone," said Death, "these walks are mine." 



Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for flight; 
Yet ere he parted said, " This hour is thine: 
Thou ait the shadow of life, and as the tree 
Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath. 
So in the light of great eternity 
Life eminent creates the shade of death; 
The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall, 
But I shall reign forever over all." 



s-K$;;e«:=S«^" 



TO JULIET. 



Sainted Juliet! dearest name! 
If to love be life alone, 
Divinest Juliet, 
I love thee, and live; and yet 
Love unreturn'd is like the fragrant flame 
Folding the slaughter of the sacrifice 

OfTered to gods upon an altar-throne; 
My heart is lighted at thine eyes, 
Chang'd into fire, and blown about with sighs. 



riMBUCTOO. 



57 



TIMBUCTOO* ■ 




"Deep in that lion-haunted inland lies 
A mystic city, gfoal of high emprise." 

Chapman. 

STOOD upon the mountain which o'erlooks 
The narrow seas, who.se rapid interval 
Parts Afric from green Europe, when the sun 
■"^li Had fall'n below th' Atlantic, and above 

The silent heavens were blench'd with fairy light, 

,..-, -^j Uncertain whether fairy light or cloud 

"^ Flowing southward, and the chasms of deep, deep 
blue 

Sliiniber'd unfathomalilc, and the stars 

Were flooded over with clear glory and pale. 

I gaz'd upon the sheeny coast beyond, 

Tnerc where the Giant of old Time infi.x'd 

The limits of his prowess, pillars high 

Long time eras'd from earth: even as the sea 

When weary of wild inroad buildeth up 

Huge mounds whereby to stay his yeasty waves. 

And much I mused on legends quaint and old 

Which whilome won the hearts of all on earth 

Towards their brightness, ev'n as flame draws air; 

But had their being in the heart of man 

As air is th' life of flame: and thou wert then 

A centred glorj'-circled memory, 

Divinest Atalantis, whoiT) the waves 

Have buried deep, and thou of later name. 

Imperial Eldorado, roof'd with gold: 

Shadows to which, de.spite all shocks of change, 

All on-set of capricious accident. 

Men clung with yearning hope which would not die. 

As when in some great cit}' where the walls 

Shake, and the streets with ghastly faces throng'd, 

Do utter forth a subterranean voice. 

Among the inner columns far retir'd 

At midnight, in the lone Acropolis, 

Before the awful genius of the place 



• A Poem which obtained the Chancellor's Medal at the Cambridge Commencement A. D. 1829. By A. 
Tennyson, of Trinity College. 



58 TIMBUCTOO. 



Kneels the pale Priestess in deep faith, the while 
Above her head the weak lamp dips and winl^s 
Unto the fearful summoning without: 
Nathless she ever clasps the marble knees, 
Bathes the cold hand with tears, and gazeth on 
Those eyes which wear no light but that wherewith 
Her fantasy informs them. 

Where are ye, 
Thrones of the western wave, fair Islands green? 
Where are your moonlight halls, your cedarn glooms, 
The blossoming abysses of your hills? 
Your flowering capes, and your gold-sanded bays 
Blown round witii happy airs of odorous winds? 
Where are the infinite ways, which, seraph-trod. 
Wound thro' your great Elysian solitudes. 
Whose lowest depths were, as with visible love, 
Fill'd with Divine effulgence, circumfus'd. 
Flowing between the clear and polish'd stems, 
And ever circling round their emerald cones 
In coronals and glories, such as gird 
The unfading foreheads of the Saints in Heaven? 
For nothing visible, the)' say, had birth 
In that blest ground, but it was play'd about 
With its peculiar glory. Then I rais'd 
My voice and cried, " Wide Afric, doth thy sun 
Lighten, thy hills enfold a city as fair 
As those which starr'd the night o' the elder world? 
Or is the rumor of thy Timbuctoo 
A dream as frail as those of ancient time? " 

A curb of whitening, flashing, ebbing light! 
A rustling of white wings! the bright descent 
Of a young Seraph! and he stood beside me 
There on the ridge, and look'd into my face 
With his unutterable, shining orbs. 
So that with hast)' motion I did veil 
My vision with both hands, and saw before me 
Such color'd spots as dance athwart the eyes 
Of those that gaze upon the noonday sun. 
Girt with a zone of flashing gold beneath 
His breast, and compass'd round about his brow 
With triple arch of everchanging bows. 
And circl'd with the glory of living light 
And alternation of all hues, he stood. 



TIMBUCTOO. 59 



'O child of man, why muse you here alone 
Upon the mountain, on the dreams of old 
Which fiird the earth with passing- loveliness. 
Which fiung»strange music on the howling winds. 
And odors rapt from remote Paradise ? 
Thy sense is clogg'd with dull mortality : 
Open thine eyes and see." 



I look'd, but not 
Upon his face, for it was wonderful 
With its exceeding brightness, and the light 
Of the great Angel Mind which look'd from out 
The starry glowing of his restless eyes. 
I felt my soul grow mighty, and my spirit 
With supernatural excitation bound 
Within me, and my mental eye grew large 
Witlt such a vast circumference of thought. 
That in my vanity I seem'd to stand 
I'pon the outward verge and bound alone 
Of full beatitude. Each failing sense. 
As with a momentary flash of light. 
Grew thrillingly distinct and keen. I saw 
The smallest grain that dappled the dark earth. 
The indistinctest atom in deep air, 
The moon's white cities, and the opal width 
Of her small glowing lakes, her silver heights 
Unvisited with dew of vagrant cloud, 
And the unsounded, undescended depth 
Of her black hollows. The clear galaxy 
Shorn of its hoary lustre, wonderful, 
Distinct and vivid with sharp points of light, 
Blaze within blaze, an unimagin'd depth 
And harmony of planet-girded suns 
And moon-encircl'd planets, wheel in wheel, 
Arch'd the wan sapphire. Nay — the hum of men. 
Or other things talking in unknown tongues. 
And notes of busy life in distant worlds 
Beat like a far wave on my anxious ear. 



A maze of piercing, trackless, thrilling thoughts, 
Involving and embracing each with each, 
Rapid as fire, inextricably link'd, 
Expanding momently with every sight 
And sound which struck the palpitating sense. 
The issue of strong impulse, hurried thro' 



60 



TIMBUCTOO. 



The riven rapt brain; as when in some large lake 
From pressure of descendant crags, which lapse 
Disjointed, crumbling from their parent slope 
At slender intei val, the level calm 
Is ridg'd with restless and increasing spheres 
Which break upon each other, each th' effect 
Of separate impulse, but more fleet and strong 
Than its precursor, till the eye in vain 
Amid the wild unrest of swimming shade 
Dappl'd with hollow and alternate rise 
Of interpenetrated arc, woukl scan 
Definite round. 

I know not if I shape 
These things with accurate similitude 
From visible objects, for but dimly now, 
Less vivid than a half-forgotten dream. 
The memorv of that mental excellence 
Comes o'er me, and it may be I entwine 
The indecision of mv present mind 
With its past clearness, 3et it seems to me 
As even then the torrent of quick thought 
Absorb'd me from the nature of itself 
With its own fleetness. Where is he, that borne 
Adown the sloping of an arrowy stream, 
Could link his shallop to the fleeting edge, 
And muse midway with philosophic calm 
Upon the wondrous laws which regulate 
The fierceness of the bounding element? 

My thoughts which long had grovell'd in the slime 
Of this dull world, like dusky worms which house 
Beneath unshaken waters, but at once 
Upon some earth-awakening day of spring 
Do pass from gloom to glory, and aloft 
Winnow the purple, bearing on both sitles 
Double display of star-lit wings, which burn 
Fan-like and fibred with intensest bloom ; 
Even so mv thoughts erewhile so low, now felt 
Unutterable buoyancy and strength 
To bear them upward through the trackless fields 
Of undefin'd existence fiir and free. 

Then first within the South mcthought I saw 
A wilderness of spires and crystal pile 



TIMBUCTOO. 61 



Of rampart upon rampart, dome on dome, 
Illimitable range of battlement 
On battlement, and the Imperial height 
Of canopy o'ercanopied. 

Behind 
In diamond light upspring the dazzling peaks 
Of Pyramids, as far sui-passing earth's 
As heaven than earth is fairer. Each aloft 
Upon his narrow'd eminence bore globes 
Of wheeling suns, or stars, or semblances 
Of either, showering circular abvss 
Of radiance. But the glory of the place 
Stood out a pillard front of burnisli'd gold, 
Interminabl_v high, if gold it were 
Of metal more ethereal, and beneath 
Two doors of blinding brilliance, where no gaze 
Might rest, stood open, and the eve could scan. 
Thro' lengths ot porch and valve and boundless hall, 
Part of a throne of fiery flame, wherefrom 
The snowv skirting of a g-annent huns. 
And glimpse of multitude of multitudes 
That minister'd around it — if I saw 
These things distinctly, for mj- human brain 
Stagger'd beneath the vision, and thick night 
Came down upon my eyelids, and I fell. 

With ministering hand he rais'd me up: 
Then with a mournful and ineffable smile, 
Wliich but to look on for a moment fill'd 
My eyes with irresistible sweet tears. 
In accents of majestic melodv, 
Like a swoln river's gushings in still night 
Mingl'd with floating music, thus he spake: 

" There is no mightier Spirit than I to sway 
The heart of man: and teach him to attain 
By shadowing forth the Unattainable; 
And step bv step to scale that mighty stair 
Whose landing-place is wrapt about with clouds 
Of glory of heaven.* With earliest light of spring. 
And in the glo%v of sallow summer-fide. 
And in red autumn when the winds are ■wild 



* Be ye perfect, erenas your Father in heaven is perfect." 



62 TIMBUCTOO. 



With gambols, and when full-voiced winter roofs 

The headlands with inviolate white snow, 

I play about his heart a thousand ways. 

Visit his eves with visions, and his ears 

With harmonies of wind and wave and wood, 

— Of winds which tell of waters, and of waters 

Betraying tlie close kisses of the wind — 

And win him unto me, and few there be 

So gross of heart who have not felt and known 

A higher than the3' see: they with dim eyes 

Behold me darkling. Lo! I have given thee 

To understand my presence, and to feel 

My fulness: I have fill'd thy lips with power, 

I have rais'd thee nigher to the spheres of heaven, 

Man's first, last home: and thou with ravish'd sense 

Listenest the lordly music flowing froin 

The illimitable years. I am the Spirit, 

The permeating life whicli courseth thro' 

All th' intricate and labyrinthine veins 

Of the great vine of Fable, which, outspread 

With growth of shadowing leaf and clusters rare 

Reacheth to every corner under lieaven. 

Deep-rooted in the living soil of truth; 

So that men's hopes and fears take refuge in 

The fragrance of its coniplicateil glooms. 

And cool impeached twilights. Child of man, 

Seest thou yon river, wiiose translucent wave, 

Forth issuing from the darkness, windeth through 

The argent streets o' the cil\', imaging 

The soft inversion of her tremulous domes, 

Her gardens fj-equent with the stately palm, 

Her pagods liiing with music of sweet bells. 

Her obelisks of ranged chrysolite. 

Minarets and towers? Lo! how he passeth by, 

And gulfs himself in sands, as not enduring 

To carry thro' the world those waves, which bore 

The reflex of my city in their depth. 

O city! O latest throne! where I was rais'd 

To be a ni} stery of loveliness 

Unto all eyes, the time has well-nigh come 

When I must render up this glorious home 

To keen Discovery; soon yon brilliant towers 

Shall darken with the \\'aving of her wand; 

Darken and shrink and shiver into huts. 

Black specks amid a waste of drear}' sand. 



THE GRASSHOPPER. 



63 



Low-built, inutl-wall'd, barbarian settlements. 
How changed from this fair city! " 

Thus far the Spirit: 
Then parted heavenward on tiie wing: and I 
Was left alone on Calpe, and the moon 
Had fallen from the night, and all was dark! 



->=o4ii»»iSS;g-*MnS=c=s- 



THE GRASSHOPPER. 



OICE of the summer wind, 
Joy of the summer plain, 
^Life of the summer hours, 
5 Carol clearly, bound along. 

No Tithon thou as poets feign 
Shame fall 'em, they are deaf and blind), 
ut an insect lithe and strong, 

ng the seeded summer flowers, 
their falsehood and thy quarrel, 
Vaulting on thine aiiy feet. 
Clap thy shielded sifles and carol, 
Carol clearly, chirrup sweet. 
i\ ,^ Thou art a mailed warrior in youth and strength com- 
plete 
Arm'd cap-a-pie, 
Full fair to see; 
Unknowing fear, 
Undreading loss, 
A gallant cavalier. 
Sans peiir et sans reprocJie, 
In sunlight and in shadow, 
The Bayard of the meadow. 





I would dwell with thee, 
Merry grasshopper, 

Thou ait so glad and free, 
And as light as air; 



64 



TO A LADT SLEEPING. 



Thou hast no sorrow or tears, 
Thou hast no compt of 3-ears, 
No wither'd immortality, 
But a short youth, sunny and free 
Carol clearly, bound along. 

Soon thy joy is over, 
A summer of loud song, 
And slumbers in the clover. 
What hast thou to do with evil 
In thine hour of love and revel. 

In thy heat of summer pride, 
Pushing the thick roots aside 
Of the singing flower'd grasses, 
That brush thee with their silken tresses? 
What hast thou to do with evil. 
Shooting, singing, ever springing 

In and out the emerald glooms, 
Ever leaping, ever singing, 

Lighting on the golden blooms? 




TO A LADT SLEEPING. 



2s^ 




^ THOU whose fringed lids I gaze upon, 
Thro' whose dim brain the wing'd dreams are borne. 
Unroof the shrines of clearest vision, 
In honor of the silver-flecked morn ; 
Long hath the white wave of the virgin light 
Driven back the billow of the dreamful dark. 
Thou all unwittingly prolongest night, 
Though long ago listening the poised lark, 
With eyes dropt downward thro' the blue serent. 

Over heaven's parapet the angels lean. 



CHOHUS. 



55 



CHORUS. 



IN AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA, WRITTEN VERY EARLY. 




HE varied earth, the moving heaven, 

The rapid waste of roving sea, 
The foinitain-pregnant mountains riven 

To shapes of wildest anarchy. 
By secret fire and midnight storms 

That wander round their windy cones, 
The subtle life, the countless forms 
Of living things, the wondrous tones 
Of man and beast are full of strange 
Astonishment and boundless change. 

The day, the diamond'd night, • 
The echo, feeble child of sound, 
The heavy thundei-'s griding might, 

The herald lightning's starry bound, 
The vocal spring of bursting bloom, 
The naked summer's glowing birth, 
The troublous autumn's sallow gloom. 
The hoar-head winter paving earth 
With sheeny white, are full of strange 
Astonishment and boundless change. 



Each sun which from the centre flings 

Grand music and redundant fire, 
The burning belts, the mighty rings. 

The murm'rous planets' rolling choir, 
The globe-filled arch that, cleaving air, ■ 

Lost in its own effulgence sleeps, 
The lawless comets as they glare 

And thunder through the sapphire deeps 
In wayward strength, are full of strange 
Astonishment and boundless change. 



66 



NATIONAL SONG. 





NATIONAL SONG. 



-HERE is no land like England 
Ki Where'er the light of day be; 
"^ TKere are no hearts like English iiearts; 
Such hearts of oak as they be. 
There is no land like England 

Where'er the light of day be-, 
Tliere are no men like Englishmen, 
So tall and bold as they be. 



CHORUS. 

For the French the Pope may shrive 'em 
For the devil a. whit we heed 'em: 
As for the French, God speed 'em 

Unto their heart's desire, 
And the merry devil drive 'em 

Through the water and the fire. 

FULL CHORUS. 

Our glory is our freedom. 
We lord it o'er the sea ; 
We are the sons of freedom, 
We are free. 



There is no land like England, 
Wliere'er the light of day be; 

There are no wives like Englisli wives. 
So fair and chaste as they be. 



ENGLISH WAR SONC. 



67 



There is no land like England, 
Where'er the light of day be; 

There are no maids like English maids 
So beautiful as they be. 

Cho. — For the French, etc 




BNGLISH WAR SONG. 



HO fears to die? Who fears to die? 
Is there any here who fears to die? 
He shall find what he fears; and none shall grieve 
For the man who fears to die; 
For the withering scorn of the many shall c'eave 
To the man who fears to die. 

CHORUS. 

Shout for England! 
Ho! for England! 
George for England! 
Merry England! 
England for aye! 

The hollow at heart shall crouch forlorn, 

He shall eat the bread of common scorn; 
It shall be steep'd in the salt, salt tear, 

Shall be steep'd in liis own salt tear: 
Far better, far better he never were born 

Than to shame merry England here. 

Cho. — Shout for Ensfland! etc. 



There standeth our ancient enemy ; 

Hark! he shouteth — the ancient enemy ! 
On the ridge of the hill his banners rise; 

They stream like fire in the skies; 
Hold up the Lion of England on high 

Till it dazzle and blind his eyes. 

Cho. — Shout for England! etc. 



68 



LOVE. 



Come along! we alone of the earth are free; 
The child in our cradles is bolder than he; 
For where is the heart and strength of slaves? 

Oh! where is the strength of slaves? 
He is weak! we are strong: he a slave, we are free 
Come along! we will dig their graves. 

Cho. — Shout for England! etc. 



There standeth our ancient enemy; 

Will he dare to battle with the free? 
Spurilong! spur amain! charge to the fight: 

Charge! charge to the fight! 
Hold up the Lion of England on high! 

Shout for God and our right. 

Cho. — Shout for England! etc. 



yTTTT^T^ ^^VTTY r^CX:a3£g:i:y:- \- \- S- \- \- srES33i^^L-'^^£SSSjK 



11-; 



>t^ 



r.- - ' . ;,:Ev,i u.-';^-:'3 -iM.'-._ . - .'J 




rHOU, from the first, unborn, undying Love, 
iAlbeit we gaze not on th_v glories near, 

Before the face of God didst breathe and move, 
Though night and pain and ruin and death reign here. 
Thou foldest, like a golden atmosphere, 
The very throne of the eternal God: 
Passing through thee the edicts of his fear 
Are mellow'd into music, borne abroad 
By the loud winds, though they uprend the sea, 
Even from its central deeps: thine empery 
Is over all: thou wilt not brook eclipse: 
Thou goest and returnest to His lips 
Like lightning: thou dost ever brood above 
The silence of all hearts, unutterable Love. 



To know thee is all wisdom, and old age 
Is but to know thee: dimly we behold thee 
Athwart the veils of evils which infold thee. 



LOVE. 



69 



We beat upon our aching hearts in rage; 

We cry for thee; we deem the world thy tomb. 

As dwellers in lone planets look upon 

The miglitv disk of their majestic sun, 

HoUow'd in awful chasms of wheeling gloom, 

Making their day dim, so we gaze on thee. 

Come, thou of many crowns, white-robed Love, 

Oh! rend the veil in twain: all men adore thee; 

Heaven crieth after thee; earth waiteth for thee; 

Breathe on thy winged throne, and it shall move 

In music and in light o'er land and sea. 

And now — methinks I gaze upon thee now, 

As on a serpent in his agonies 

Awe-stricken Indians; what time laid low 

And crushing the thick fragrant reeds he lies, 

Wiien the new year warm-breathed on the earth, 

Waiting to light him with her purple skies. 

Calls to him by the fountain to uprise. 

Already with the pangs of a new birth 

Strain the hot spheres of his convulsed eyes. 

And in his writhings awful hues begin 

To wander down his sablc-sheeny sides, 

Like light on troubled waters: from within 

Anon he rusheth forth with merry din, 

And in him light and joy and strength abides; 

And fi'om his brows a crown of living light 

Looks through the thick-stemm'd woods by day and nigni. 




70 



THE "HOW" AND THE " WH2V 



THE " HO W AND THE " WHTr 




AM any man's suitor, 
If an}' will he my tutor: 
Some say this life is pleasant, 
Some think it speedeth fastj 
In time there is no present, 
In eternity no future, 
In eternity no past. 
We laugh, we cry, we are born, we die. 
Who will riddle iiic the hoiv and the -why? 



Tiie bulrush nods unto its brother. 

The wheat-ears whisper to each other: 

What is it they say.' what do they there.' 

Why two and two make four? why round is not square? 

Why the rock stands still, and the light clouds fly? 




Why the heavy oak groans, and the white willows sigh? 

Why deep is not high, and high is not deep? 

Whether we wake or whether we sleep? 

Whether we sleep, or whether we die? 

How you are you? why I am I? 

Who will riddle me the Jioiv and the ivhy ? 



^^-.* ,»<: ;^ 



^g#r **^^ -^ 




"The little bird pipeth— why ? why?" 



Of ploUTZ^. 1\ 

The world is soaiewhat; it goes on somehow: 
But what is the meaning of then and nozc ? 
I feel there is something; but liow and what? 
I know there is somewhat: but what and why? 
I cannot tell if that somewhat be I. 

The little bird pipeth — " why? why?" 
In the summer woods when the sun falls low, 
And the great bird sits on the opposite bough, 
And stares in his face and shouts " how ? how ? " 
And the black owl scuds down the mellow twilight, 
And chants " how? how? " the whole of the night. 

Why the life goes out when the blood is spilt? 

What the life is? where the soul may lie? 
Wh^- :i church is \vith a steeple built: 
And a house with a chimney-pot? 
Who will riddle me the how and the what? 

Who will riddle me the what and the whv' 



Of finuTsq. 




r LL thoughts, all creeds, all dreams are true, 
[ All visions wild and stiange: 
1^*^" Man is the measure of all truth 

Unto himself. All truth is change. 
All men do walk in sleep, and all 
Have faith in that they dream: 
For all things are as they seem to all. 
And all things flow like a stream. 



There is no rest, no calm, no pause. 

Nor good nor ill, nor light nor shade, 
Nor essence nor eternal laws: 

For nothing is, but all is made. 
But if I dream tiiat all these are. 

They are to me for that I dream ; 
For all things are as they seem to all, 

And all things flow like a stream. 

Argal — this very opiaion is only true relatively to the flowing pliilosophers. 



72 



DUALISMS. 



DUALISMS. 




rWO bees within a crystal flower-bell locked, 
Hum a love-lay to the west wind at noon-tide 
Both alike, they buzz together. 
Both alike, they hum together, 
Thro' and thro' the flowcr'd heather. 
Where in a creepmg cove the wave unshocked 
Lays itself calm and wide. 




Over a stream two birds of glancing feather 
Do \voo each other, carolling together. 
Bolli alike, they glide together. 

Side by side ; 
Both alike, they sing together, 
Arching blue-glossed necks beneath the purple weather. 



Two children lovelier than Love adown the lea are singing 
As they gambol, lily-garlands ever stringing: 
Both in blosm-white silk are frocked : 

Like, unlike, they roam together 

Under a summer vault of golden weather: 

Like, unlike, they sing together 
Side by side, 

Mid-May's darling golden locked, 

Summer's tanling diainond-eved. 



LOVE, PRIDE, AND FORGETFULN ESS. —LOST HOPE. 



rs. 



LOVE, PRIDE, AND EORGETFULNESS. 




RE yet my heart was sweet Love's tomb. 
Love labor'd honey busily. 
I was the hive and Love the bee, 
My heart the honeycomb. 
One very dark and chilly night 
Pride came beneath and held a lio-ht. 

The cruel vapors went through all, 
Sweet Love was wither'd in his cell; 
Pride took Love's sweets, and by a spell 
Did change them into gall ; 
And Memory, though fed by Pride- 
Did wax so thin on gall, 
Awhile she scarcely liv'd at all. 
What marvel that she died.? 



LOST HOPE. 



You cast to ground the hope which once was mine: 
But did the while vour harsh decree deplore. 

Embalming with sweet tears the vacant shrine. 

My heart, where Hope had been and was no more. 



So on an oaken sprout 

A goodly acorn grew; 
But winds from heaven shook the acorn out, 

And fill'd the cup with dew. 



74 



LOVE AND SORROW. 



LOVE AND SORROW. 



^^^ MAIDEN, fresher than the first green leaf 

|: With which the fearful springtide flecks the lea 
Weep not, Almeida, that I said to thee 
That thou hast half my heart, for bitter grief 
Doth hold the other half in sovranty. 
Thou art my heart's sun in love's crystalline: 
Yet on both sides at once thou canst not shine; 
Thine is the bright side of my heart and thine 
My heart's day, but the shadow of x\\y heart, 
Issue of its own substance, my heart's night 
Thou canst not lighten even with thy light, 
All-powerful in beauty as thou art. 
Almeida, if my heart w^ere substanceless. 
Then might thy rays pass thro' to the other side. 
So swiftlv, that the)' nowhere would abide, 
But lose themselves in utter einptiness. 
Half-light, half-shadow, let my spirit sleep: 
They never learn'd to love who never knew to weep. 



SOJVNBTS. 



75 




SONNETS. 



I. 



f 



l^^f-HE lintwhite and the throstlecock, 
l(gi' iHave voices sweet and clear; 
If;?^?^ All in the bloomed May. 

They from the blosmy brere 
Call to the fleeting year, 
If that he would them hear 

And stay. 
Alas! that one so beautiful 
Should have so dull an ear. 



Fair year, fair year, thy children call, 
But thou art deaf as death ; 

All in the bloomed May. 
When thy light perisheth 
That from thee issueth, 
Our life evanisheth: 

O, stay ! 
Alas! that lips so cruel-dumb 
Should have so sweet a breath! 



Fair year, with brows of royal love 

Thou comest, as a king. 

All in the bloomed May. 
Thy golden largess fling. 
And longer hear us sing; 
Though thou art fleet of wing. 



■76 



SONNETS. 



Yet stay. 
Alas! that eyes so full of light 
Should be so wandering! 

Thy locks are all of sunny sheen, 
In rings of gold yronne,* 

All in the bloomed May. 
We pri'thee jjass not on ; 
If thou dost leave the sun, 
Delight is with thee gone. 
O, stay ! 
Thou art the fairest of thy feres, 
We pri'thee pass not on. 



II. 



Though Night hatii climb'd her peak of highest noon, 

And bitter blasts the screaming autumn whirl, 

All night thro' archways of the bridged pearl. 

And portals of pure silver, walks the moon. 

Walk on, my soul, nor crouch to agony, 

Turn cloud to light, and bitterness to joy. 

And dross to gold with glorious alchemy. 

Basing thy throne above the world's annoy. 

Reign thou above the storms of sorrow and ruth 

That roar beneath; unshaken peace hath won thee; 

So shalt thou pierce the woven glooms of truth ; 

So shall the blessing of the meek be on thee; 

So in thine hour of dawn, the body's youth. 

An honorable eld shall come upon thee. 



III. 



Shall the hag Evil die with child of Good, 

Or propagate again her loathed kind, 

Thronging the cells of the diseased mind. 

Hateful with hanging cheeks, a wither'd brood, 

Though hourly pastur'd on the salient blood? 

O that the wind which bloweth cold or heat 

Would shatter and o'erbear the brazen beat 

Of their broad vans, and in the solitude 

Of middle space confound them, and blow back 

Their wild cries down their cavern throats, and slake 

With poinds of blast-borne hail their heated eyne! 

• ** His crisDe' hair in rinfiflis was yronne." — Chaucer, Knightts TaU. 



SOJVJVETS. 77 



So their wan limbs no more might come between 
The moon and the moon's reflex in the night, 
Nor blot with floating shades the solar light. 

IV. 

I' THE glooming light 

Of middle night 

So cold and white, 
Worn Sorrow sits by the moaning wave, 

Beside her are laid 

Her mattock and spade, 
For she hath half delv'd her own deep grave. 

Alone she is there; 
The white clouds drizzle: her hair falls loose: 

Her shoulders are bare; 
Her tears are mix'd with the beaded dews. 

Death standeth by; 

She will not die; 

With glaz'd eye 
She looks at her grave: she cannot sleep; 

Ever alone 

She maketh her moan: 
She cannot speak: she can only weep, 

For she will not hope. 
The thick snow falls on her flake by flake, 

The dull wave mourns down the slope, 
The world will not change, and her heart will not break. 

V. 

Could I outwear my present state of woe 
With one brief winter, and indue i' the spring 
Hues of fresh youth, and mightily outgrow 
That wan dark coil of faded suffering — 
Forth in the pride of beauty issuing 
A sheeny snake, the light of vernal bowers, 
Moving his crest to all sweet plots of flowers 
And water'd valleys where the young birds sing; 
Could I thus hope my lost delight's renewing, 
I straightly would command the tears to creep 
From my charg'd lids; but inwardly I weep; 
Some vital heat as yet iny heart is wooing; 
That to itself hath drawn the frozen rain 
From mv cold eves, and melted it again. 



78 SONNETS. 



VI. 



The pallid thunder-stricken sigh for gain., 

Down an ideal stream thev ever float, 

And sailing on Pactohis in a boat, 

Drown soul and sense, while wistfully they strain 

Weak eyes upon the glistening sands that robe 

The understrcam. The wise, could he behold 

Cathedral'd caverns of thick-ribbed gold 

And branching silvers of the central globe, 

Would marvel from so beautiful a sight 

How scorn and ruin, pain and hate could flow: 

But Hatred in a gold cave sits below; 

Pleach'd with her hair, in mail of argent light 

Shot into gold, a snake her forehead clips. 

And skins the color from her trembling lips. 



vn. 

Every day hath its night: 

Every night its morn: 
Thorough dark and brisjht 
Winged hours are borne: 
Ah! welaway! 
Seasons flower and fade; 
Golden calm and storm 

Mingle day by day. 
There is no bright form 
Doth not cast a shade — 
Ah! welawaj'! 

When we laugh, and our mirth 

Apes the happv vein, 
We're so kin to earth, 

Pleasaunce fathers pain — 
Ah! welaway! 
Madness laugheth loud: 
Laughter bringeth tears: 
Ej'es are worn away 
Till the end of fears 
Cometh in the shroud. 
Ah! welaway! 



SONNETS. 



79 



All is change, woe or weal 
Joy is Sorrow's brother; 
Grief and gladness steal 
Symbols of each other: 
Ah! welaway! 
Larks in heaven's cope 
Sing: the culvers mourn 

All the livelong day. 
Be not all forlorn: 
Let us weep in hope — 
Ah! welaway! 

VIII. 




THE TEARS OE HEAVEN. 

EAVEN weeps above the earth all night till morn, 

In darkness weeps, as all asham'd to weep, 

Because the earth hath made her stale forlorn 

With self-wrought evil of xninumber'd years, 

Antl doth the fruit of her dishonor reap. 

And all the day heaven gathers back her tears 

Into her own blue eyes so clear and deep, 

And showering down the glory of lightsome day. 

Smiles on the earth's worn brow to win her if she may. 



g .*S5 . 




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W 



THE I.ADT OF SHALOTT. 



83 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 




PART I. 



jK^N either side the river lie 
vM Long fields of barley and of rye, 
jw| That clothe the wold and meet the sky: 
J^ And tliro' the field the road runs by 
To many towei'd Camelot; 
t^O\-J And np and down the jjeople go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below. 
The island of Shalott. 



Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Thro' the wave that runs forever 
Bv the island in the river 
Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four c.ray walls, and four gra\' towers, 
Overlook a space of flovvcrs, 
And the silent isle imbovvers 
The Lady of Shalott. 



By the margin, willow-veil'd, 
Slide the heavy barges trail'd 
By slow horses; and unhailVl 
The shallop flitteth sillven-sail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot: 
But who hath seen her wave her hand? 
Or at the casement seen her stand? 
Or is she known in all the land 

The Lady of Shalott? 



Only reapers, reapuig early 
In among the bearded barley. 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the ri\er winding clearlv, 

Down to tower'd Camelot: 



84 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



And by the moon the reaper weary, 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy, 
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy 
Lady of Shalott." 



There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web of colors gay. 
She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be, 
And so she weaveth steadily, 
And little other care hath she, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year, 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot: 
There the river eddy whirls. 
And there the surly village-churls, 
And the red cloaks of market girls, 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
An abbot on an ambling pad, 
.Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, 
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad. 

Goes by to tower'd Camelot ; 
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and two : 
She hath no loyal knight and true. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights, 
For often through the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights, 
And music, went to Camelot: 



THE LADT OF SHaLOTT. 



85 




Or wUen the moon was overhead, 
Came two 3'oung lovers, lately ^ved; 
" I am half-sick of shadows," said 
The Ladv of Shalott. 



PART lit. 



A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, 
He rode between the barley -sheaves. 
The sun came dazzling through the leaves. 
And flam'd upon the brazen greaves 

— Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
A red-cross knight forever kneel'd 
To a lady in his shield, 
That sparkl'd on the yellow field. 

Beside remote Shalott. 



86 



THE I.ADT OF SHALOTT. 




Tile gemmy bridle glittei'd free, 
Like to some branch of stars we see 
Hung in the goklen Galaxy. 
The bridle bells rang merriiv 

As he rode down to Camelot: 
And from his blazen'd baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armor rung, 

Beside remote Shalott. 



All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick -jewell'd shone the saddle-leather. 
The hebnet and the helmet-feather 
Burn'd like one burriing i^anie together, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
As often thro' the purple niglit, 
Below the starry clusters bright, 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 

Moves over still Shalott. 



THE LADT OF SHALOTT. 



S7 



His hroatl clear brow in sunliglit glow'd : 
On biunish'd hooves his war-horse trode; 
From underneath his hchnet flow'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Cainelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 
" Tirra lirra," by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom, 
She made three paces thro' the room. 
She saw the water-lily bloom, 
She saw the helmet and the plume. 
She look'd down to Camelot. 




Out flew the web and floated wide; 
The mirror crack'd from side to side; 
" The curse is come upon me," cried 
The Lady of Shalott. 



88 7^HE LADT OF SHAI.OTT. 



PART IV. 



In the stormy east-'wind straining, 
The pale yellow woods were waning, 
The broad stream in his banks complaining, 
Heavilv the low sky raining 

Over tower'd Camclot; 
Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat. 
And round about the prow she wrote 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And down the river's dim expanse — 
Like some bold seer in a trance. 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loos'd the chain, and down she lay; 
The broad stream bore her far away, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in snowy white 
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot, 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among, 
They heard her singing her last song, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard her carol, mournful, holy. 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly. 
Till her blood was frozen slowly. 
And her eyes were darken'd wholly, 

Turn'd to tov/er'd Camelot; 
For ere she reach'd upon the tide 
The first house by the water-side. 
Singing in her song she died. 

The Lady of Shalott. 



THE LADT OF SHALOTT. 



89 



Uiuler tower and balcony, 

By garden-wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape she floated by, . 

A corse between the houses high, 

Silent into Canielot. 
Out upon the wharfs the)' came, 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 
And round the j^row they read her name. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Who is this? and what is here? 
And in the lighted palace near 
Died the sound of royal cheer; 
And they cross'd themselves for fear. 

All the knights at Camelot: 
But Laticelot mus'd a little space: 
He said, " She has a lovely face; 
God in his mercy lend her grace, 

The Lady of Shalott." 




90 



MARIANA IjV THE SOUTH. 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 




ITH one black shadow at its feet, 

The house thro' all the level shines, 
Close-lattic'd to the brooding heat. 

And silent in its dusty vines: 
A faint-blue ridge upon the right, 

An empty river-bed before, 
And shallows on a distant shore. 
In glaring sand and inlets bright. 

But "Ave Mary," made she moan. 

And " Ave Mary,'' night and morn. 
And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone. 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 

She, as her carol sadder grew. 

From brow and bosom slowly down 
Thro' rosy taper fingers drew 

Her streaming curls of deepest Vjrovvn 
To left and right, and made appear. 
Still lighted in a secret shrine. 
Her melancholy eyes divine, 
The home of woe without a tear. 

And " Ave Mary," was her moan, 

" Madonna, sad is night and morn " ; 
And " Ah," she sang, " to be all alone. 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 



Till all the crimson chang'd, and past 

Into deep orange o'er the sea, 
Low on her knees herself she cast. 
Before Our Lady murmur'd she; 
Complaining, " Mother, give me giace 
To help me of my weary load." 
And on the liquid mirror glow'd 
The clear perfection of her face. 

" Is this the form," she made her moan, 

" That won his praises night and morn?" 
And " Ah," she said, " but I wake alone, 
I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn." 






^^t§-*'-tr -T 







" Nor bird would sing, nor Iamb would bleat." 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 91 



Nor biril would sing, nor lamb would bleat, 

Nor any cloud would cross the vault. 
But tiay increas'd from heat to heat, 

On stony drought and steaming salt; 
Till now at noon she slept again, 

And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass. 
Anil heard her native breezes pass. 
And ruidcts babbling down the glen. 

She breath'd in sleep a lower moan. 

And murmuring, as at night and morn, 
She tJiought, " My spirit is here alone, 
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn." 

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream: 
She lelt he was and was not there. 
She woke: the babble of the stream 
Fell, and without the steady oku-e 
Shrank one sick willow sere and small. 
The river-bed was dusty-white; 
And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding wall. 

She vvhisper'd, with a stifled moan 

More inward than at night or mom, 
" Sweet Mother, let me not here alone 
Live forgotten and die forlorn." 

And, rising, from her bosom drew 

Old letters breathing of her worth, 
For " Love," they said, " must needs be true. 

To what is loveliest upon earth." 
An image seem'd to pass the door. 
To look at her with slight, and say, 
" But now thy beauty tlows away. 
So be alone forevermore." 

" O cruel heart," she chang'd her tone, 
" And cruel love, whose end is scorn, 
Is this the end to be left alone. 

To live forgotten, and die forlorn!" 

But sometimes in the falling day 
An image seem'd to pass the door, 

To look into her eyes and say, 

" But thou shalt be alone no more." 



92 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 



And flaming downward over all 

From heat to heat the day decreas'd, 
And slowly rounded to the east 
The one black shadow from the wall. 

" The day to night," she made her moan, 
" The day to night, the night to morn. 
And day and night I am left alone 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 

At eve a dry cicala sung. 

There came a sound as of the sea; 
Backward the lattice-blind she flung, 

And lean'd upon the balcony. 
There all in spaces rosy-bright 

Large Hesper glitterVl on her tears, 
And deepening thro' the silent spheres, 
H^ven over Heaven rose the night. 

And w^eeping then she made her inoan, 

" The night conies on that knows not morn, 
When I shall cease to be all alone, 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 




ELBANORE. 



93 



£LBANORE. 




HY dark eyes open'd not, 

Nor first reveal'd themselves to English air. 
For there is nothing here, 
Which, from the outward to the inward brought, 
^Moulded thv bab\' thought. 
Far off from hiunan neighborhood. 
Thou wert born, on a summer morn, 
A mile beneath the cedar-wood. 
Th3' bounteous forehead was not fann'd 

With breezes from our oaken glades. 
But tiiou wert nurs'd in some delicious land 

Of lavish liglits, and floating sliades: 
And flattering thy childish thought 
The oriental fair_v bi^ought, 
At the moment of thy birth. 
From old well-heads of haunted rills, 
And the hearts of purple hills, 

And shadow'd coves on a sunn}' shore, 
The choicest wealth of all the earth, 
Jewel or shell, or starry ore. 
To deck thv cradle, Eleanore. 



Or the yellow-banded bees. 

Thro' half-open lattices 

Coming in the scented breeze. 

Fed thee, a child, lying alone. 

With whitest honey in fairy gardens cull'd — 
A glorious child, dreaming alone. 
In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, 

With the hum of swarming bees ' 

Into dreamful slumber lulTd. 



Who may minister to thee.' 
Summer lierself should minister 

To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded 
On golden salvers, or it may be. 
Youngest Autumn, in a bower 



94 ELEANORS. 



Grape thicken'il from the light and bhiided 

With many a deep-liued bell-like flower 

Of fragrant trailers, when the air 

Sleepeth over all the heaven, 
And the crag that fronts the Even, 
All along the shadowing shore, 

Crimsons over an inland mere, 
Eleanore! 

How may full-sail'd verse express, 

How may measured vvonls adore 
The full-flowing harmony 
Of thy swan-like stateliness, 
Eleanore? 
The luxuriant symmetry 
Of thy floating gracefulness, 
Eleanore? 
Every turn and glance of thine. 
Every lineament divine, 
Eleanore, 
And the steady sunset glow, 
That stays unon thee? For in thee 
Is nothing sudden, nothing single: 
Like two streams of incense free 
From one censer, in one shrine. 
Thought and motion mingle, 
Mingle ever. Motions flow 
To one another, even as tho' 
They \vere modulated so 

To an unheard melodv, 
Which lives about thee, and a sweep 

Of richest pauses, evermore 
Drawn from each other, mellow-deep: 
Who may express thee, Eleanore? 

I stand before thee, Eleanore; 

I see thv beauty gradually unfold, 
Daily and hourly, more and more. 
I muse, as in a trance, the while 

Slowly, as from a cloud of gold. 
Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. 
I muse, as in a trance, whene'er 

The languors of thy love-deep eyes 
Float on to me. I would I were 

So tranc'd, so wrapt in ecstacies. 



ELEANORE. 



95 



To stami apart, and to adore, 
Gazing on thee forevermore, 
Serene, imperial Eleanore! 

Sometimes, with most intensity 

Gazing, I seeiii to see 

Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep. 

Slowly awaken'd, grow so full and deep 

In thy large eyes, that, overpower'd quite, 

I cannot veil, or droop my sight. 

But am as nothing in its light: 

As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set, 

Ev'n while we gaze on it, 

Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow 

To a full face, there like a sun remain 

Fix'd — then as slowly fade again. 

And draw itself to what it was before; 
So full, so deep, so slow. 
Thought seems to come and go 

In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore. 



j,-^^&: '\';^«^'i .'"l.^* 




^ "i-t.y-J 



As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, 

Roofd the world with doubt and fear, 

Floating thro' an evening atmosphere, 

Grow golden all about the sk}' ; 

In thee all passion becomes passionless, 

Touch'd by i\\y spirit's mellowness, 

Losing his fire am! active might 
In a silent meditation, 

Falling into a still delight, 

And luxury of contemplation: 



90 ELEANOHE. 



As waves that up a quiet cove 
Rolling slide, and lying still 

Shadow foi'th the banks at will: , 

Or sometimes they swell and move, 
Pressing up against the land, 
With motions of the outer sea: 
And the self-same influence 
Controlleth all the soul and sense 
Of passion gazing upon tiiee. 
His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, 
Leaning his cheek upon his hand. 
Droops both his wings, regarding thee, 
And so would languish evermore. 
Serene, imperial Eleanore. 

But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfin"d. 
While the amorous, odorous wind 

Breathes low between the sunset and the moon; 
Or, in a shadowy saloon. 
On silken cushions half reclin'd; 

I watch thy grace; and in its place 
My heart a charmed slumber keeps. 

While I muse upon thy face; 
And a languid fire creeps 

Thro' my veins to all my frame, 
Dissolvingly and slowly: soon 

From thy rose-red lips my name 
Floweth ; and then, as in a swoon, 

With dinning sound my ears are rife. 

My tremulous tongue fakereth, 
I lose my color, I lose my breath, 
I drink the cup of a costly death, 
BrimmVl with delirious draughts of warmest life. 
I die with my delight, before 

I hear what I would hear from thee; 
Yet tell my name again to me, 
I would be dying evermore. 
So dying ever, Eleanore. 




THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



97 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



^■3^t 






[j5^^§^ SEE the wealthy miller j-et, 

O •,, Jica -His double chin, his portly size, 



fj 



^■^'^at*'- '-*~':'^'.-i>' t^i^yf 




■*_ ;;A. j^"^And who that knew him could forget 
The busy wrinkles round his eyes? 

The slow wise smile, that round about 
His dustv forehead dr\ ly curlVl, 

SeemM half-within and half-without, 
And full of dealings with the world? 



n 

1 m 



In yonder chair I see him sit. 

Three fingers round the old silver cup- 
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet 

i\.t his own jest — gray eyes lit up 
With summer lightnings of a soul 

So full of summer warmth, so glad, 
So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, 

His memory scarce can make me sad. 



Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss: 

My own sweet Alice, we must die; 
There's somewhat in this world amiss 

Shall be unriddl'd by and by. 
There's somewhat flows to us in life, 

But more is taken quite away. 
Pray, Alice, prav, my darling wife. 

That we may die the self-same day. 



Have I not found a happy earth ? 

I least should breathe a thought of pain. 
Would God renew me from my birth 

I'd almost live my life again. 
So sweet it seems with thee to walk. 

And once again to woo thee mine — 
It seems in after-dinner talk 

Across the walnuts and the wine — 



98 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



To be the long and listless boy 

Late left an orphan of the squire, 
Where this old mansion mounted high 

Looks down upon the village spire: 
For even here, where I and you 

Have liv'd and lov'd alone so long. 
Each morn my sleep was broken thro' 

By some wild skylark's matin song. 




And oft I heard the tender dove 

In firry woodlands making moan ; 
But ere I saw your eyes, my love, 

I had no motion of my own. 
For scarce my life witii fancy play'd 

Before I dream'd that pleasant dream — 
Still hither thither idly sway'd 

Like those long mosses in the stream. 

Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear 

The milldam rushing down with noise. 
And see the minnows everywhere 

In crystal eddies glance and poise. 
The tall flag-flowers when they sprung 

Below the range of stepping-stones. 
Or those three chestnuts near, that hung 

In masses thick with milkv cones. 



But, Alice, what an hour was that. 
When after roving in the woods 

('Twas April then), I came and sat 
Below the chestnuts, when their buds 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 99 



Were glistening to tlie breezy blue; 

And on the slope, an absent fool, 
I cast me down, nor thought of you, 

But angled in the higher pool. 

A love-song I had somewhere read, 

An echo from a measur'd strain, 
Beat time to nothing in my head 

From some odd corner of the brain. 
It haunted me, the morning long. 

With weary sameness in the rhymes, 
The phantom of a silent song. 

That went and came a thousand times. 

Then leapt a tiout. In lazy mood 

I watch d the little circles die; 
They past into the level flood. 

And there a vision caught my eye; 
The reflex of a beauteous form, 

A glowing arm, a gleaming neck. 
As when a sunbeam wavers warm 

Within the dark and dimpled beck. 

For you remember, you had set. 

That morning, on the casement's edge 
A long green box of mignonette, 

And you were leaning from the ledge, 
And when I rais'd my e^xs, above 

They met with two so full and bright — 
Such eyes! I swear to you, my love. 

That these have never lost their light. 

I lov'd, and love dispell'd the fear ' 

That I should die an early death; 
For love possess'd the atmosphere. 

And fill'd the breast with purer breath. 
My inother thought. What ails the boy.? 

For I v/as alter'd, and began 
To move about the house with joy. 

And with the certain step of man. 

I lov'd the brimming wave that swam 
Thro' quiet meadows round the mill, 
The sleepy pool above the dam, 



100 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



The pooi beneath it never still, 
The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor, 

The dark roiiud of the dripping wheel. 
The very air about tlie door 

Made misty with the floating meal. 

And ofl: in ramblings on the wold, 

When April niglits began to blow, 
And April's crescent glimmer'd cold, 

I saw the village lights below; 
I knew your taper far away, 

And full at heart of trembling hope, 
From off the wold 1 came, and lay 

Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. 

The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill* 

And '-by that lamp," I thought, "she sits!" 
The wliite chalk-quarry from the hill 

Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits. 
" O that I were beside her now! 

O will she answer if I call? 
O would she give me vow for vow, 

Sweet Alice, if I told her all?" 

Sometimes I saw you sit and spm; 

And, in the pauses of the wind, , 
Sometimes I heard you sing within;* 

Sometimes your shadow cross'd the blind. 
At last you rose and mov'd the light. 

And the long shadow of the chair 
Flitted across into the night, 

And all the casement darken'd there. 

But when at last I dar'd to speak. 

The lanes, you know, were white with May, 
Your ripe lips mov'd not, but your chet-k 

Flush'd like the coming of the day; 
And so it was — half-sly, half-shy, 

You would, and would not, little cnel 
Although I pleaded tenderly, 

And you and I were all alone. 



THE M/LLBJTS DAUGHTER. KiS 

And ^l^wly was 1x13' mother brought 

To yield consent to my desire: 
She wish'd me happy, but she thought 

I might have look'd a little higher; 
And I was young — too yoimg to wed: 

" Yet must I love her for your sake; 
Go fetch )'our Alice here," she said: 

Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. 

And down 1 went to fetch my bride: 

But, Alice, you were ill at ease; 
This dress and that by turns you tried, 

Too fearful that 3-ou should not please. 
1 lov'd 3'ou better for your fears, 

I knew you could not look but well; 
And dews, that would have fall'n in teais- 

I kiss'd awa}' before they fell. 

1 watch'd the little flutterings, 

The doubt my mother would not see. 
She spoke at large of many things, 

And at the last she spoke of me; 
And turning look'd upon vour face 

As near this door you sat apart. 
Anil rose, and. witii a silent grace 

Approaching, press'd you heart tc heiart 

Ah, well — but sing the foolish song 

1 gave you, Alice, on the day 
When, arm in arm, we went along, 

A pensive pair, and you were gay 
With bridal flowers — that I may seem. 

As in the nights of old, to lie 
Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, 

While those full chestnuts whisper by. 



It is the milier's daughter, 

Ar.il she is grown so dear, so dear, 
That 1 would be the jewel 

That u-embles at her ear : 
For hid in ringlets day and night, 
I'd touch her neck so waim and white. 



102 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 

And I would be the girdle 

About hei- dainty, dainty waist, 

And her heart would beat against me, 
In sorrow and in rest: 

And I should know if it beat right, 

I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 

And I would be the necklace, 
And all day long to fall and rise 

Upon her balmy bosom. 
With her laughter or her sighs, 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. 

A trifle, sweet! which true love spells — 

True love interprets — right alone. 
His light upon the letter dwells, 

For all the spirit is his own. 
So, if I waste words now, in truth. 

You must blame Love. His early rage 
Had force to make nie rhyme in youth. 

And makes me talk too much in age. 

And now those vivid hours are gone, 

Like mine own life to me thou art. 
Where Past and Present, wound in one, 

Do make a garland for the heart: 
So sing that other song I made, 

Half-anger'd with my happy lot. 
The day, when in the chestnut shade 

I found the blue Forget-me-not. 



Love that hath us in the net. 
Can he pass, and we forget? 
Many suns arise and set. 
Many a chance the years beget. 
Love the gift is Love the debt. 
Even so. 

Love is hurt with jar and fret. 
Love is made a vague regret. 
Eyes with idle tears are wet. 
Idle habit links us yet. 
What is love.' for we forget: 
Ah, no! nol 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 103 

Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, 

Round my true heart thine arms entwine; 
My other dearer life in life, 

Look thro' my very soul with thine! 
Untouch'd with any shade of years, 

May those kind eyes forever dwell! 
They have not shed a many tears, 

Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. 

Yet tears they shed : they liad their part 

Of sorrow: for when time was ripe, 
The slill afTection of the heart 

Became an outward breathing type. 
That into stillness past again, 

And left a want unknown before; 
Altliough the loss that brought us pain. 

That loss but made us love the more, 

With fiirther looking? on. The kiss, 

The woven arms, seem but to be 
Weak symbols of the settled bliss. 

The comfort, T have found in thee: 
But that God bless thee, dear — who wrought 

Two spirits to one equal mind — 
With blessings beyond hope or thought. 

With blessings which no words can find. 

Arise, and let us wander forth, 

To yon old mill across the wolds; 
For look, the sunset, south and north, 

Winds all the vale in rosy folds. 
And fires your narrow casement glass, 

Touching the sullen pool below : 
On the chalk-hill the bearded grass 

Is dry and dewless. Let us go. 




104 



F ATI MA. 



FA TIMA. 



Sm^ 




5 LOVE, Love, Love! O witherins^ might! 
O sun, that from ihy noonday height 
Shudderest when I strain my sight, 
Throbhing thro' all thy heat and light, 
Lo, falling from my constant mind, 
Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind, 
I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. 



Last night I wasted hateful hours 
Below the city's eastern towers: 
I thirsted for the brooks, the showers: 
I roll'd among the tender flowers: 

I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth; 
I look'd athwart the burning drouth 
Of that long desert to the south. 

Last night, when some one spoke his name. 
From iny swift blood that went and came 
A thousand little shafts of flame 
Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. 
O Love, O fire! once he drew 
With one long kiss my whole soul thro' 
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. 

Before he mounts the hill, I know 
He cometh quickly : from below 
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow 
Before him, striking on my brow. 
In my dry brain my spirit soon, 
Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, 
Faints like a dazzl'd morning moon. 



The wind sounds like a silver wire, 
And from beyond the noon a fire 
Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher 
The skies stoop down in their desire; 
And, isl'd in sudden seas of light. 
My heart, pierc'd thro' with fierce delight, 
Bursts into blossom in his sight. 



CENONE. 



105 



My whole soul waiting silently, 

All naked in a sulti y sky, 

Droops blinded with his shining eye: 

I -will possess him or will die. 

I will grow round him in his place. 
Grow, live, die looking on his face, 
Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace. 



"•^3«$;i$-Ss:S^.- 



CENONE. . 




HERE lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 
Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 
The swimming vapor slopes athwart the glen. 
Puts foith an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, 
And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 
The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down 
Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars 
The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine 
In cataract after cataract to the sea. 
Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 
Stands up and takes the morning: but in front 
The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 
Troas and Ilion's coluinn'd citadel. 
The crown of Troas. 

Hitlier came at noon 
Mournful CEnone, wandering forlorn 
Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. 
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck 
Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. 
She, leaning on a fragment twin'd with vine. 
Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade 
Slop'd downward to her seat from the upper cliff. 



"O mother Ida, inany-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
For now the noonday quiet holds the hill 
The grasshoppei' is silent in the grass: 
The lizard, with his shadow on the stone. 
Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps. 



106 



CENONE. 



The purple flowers droop: the golden bee 
Is lily-cradl'd : I alone awake. 
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, 
My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, 
And I nni all aweary of my life. 







" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Hear me O earth, hear me O hills, O caves 
That house the cold crown'd snake! O mountain brooks, 
I am the daughter of a river-goil, 
Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all 
My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls 
Rose slowly to a music slowly breatli'd, 
A cloud that gather'd shaj^e: for it mav be 
That, while I speak of it, a little while 
My heart may wander from its deeper woe. 



(ENONE. 107 



"O mother Ida, manv-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
I waited underneath the dawning hills, 
Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark. 
And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine: 
Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 
Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white-hoov'd, 
Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 

" O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Far-off the torrent call'd me from the cleft: 
Far up the solitary morning smote 
The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes 
I sat alone: white-breasted like a star 
Fronting the dawn he mov'd; a leopard skin 
Dropp'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair 
Cluster'd about his temples like a God's; 
And his cheek brighten'd as the foam-bow brightens 
When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart 
Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
He smil'd, and opening out his milk-white palm 
Disclos'd a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, 
That smelt ambrosially, and while I hiok'd 
And listen'd, the full-flowing river (^i speech 
Came down upon my heart. 

" ' M)' own CEnone, 
Beautiful-brow'd ffinone, mv own soul, 
Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind eiigrav'n 
" For the most fair," would seem to award it thine, 
As lovelier than whatever Ore.ad haunt 
The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace 
Of movement, and the charm of married brows.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
He prest the blossom of his lips to mine. 
And added, ' This was cast upon the board. 
When all the full-fac'd presence of the Gods 
Rang'd in the halls of Peleus; whereupon 
Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due: 
But ligiit-foot Iris brought it yester-eve. 
Delivering that to me, by common voice 
Elected umpire. Here comes to-day, 



108 CENONE. 



Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 
This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave 
Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, 
Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard 
Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud 
Had lost his way between the piny sides 
Of this long glen. Then to the bovver they came. 
Nailed they came to that smootli-s warded bower, 
And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, 
Violet, amaracus, and asphodel. 
Lotos and lilies: and a wind arose, 
And overliead the wandering ivy and vine, 
This way and that, in many a wikl festoon 
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs 
With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'. 

" O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit. 
And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. 
Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom 
Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows 
Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods 
Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made 
Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue 
Wherewith to embellish state, ' from many a vale 
And river-sunder'd champaign cloth'd witli corn, 
Or labor'd mines undrainable of ore. 
Honor,' she said, ' and homage, tax and toil. 
From inanj' an inland town and haven large, 
Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel 
In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' 

" O motlier Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Still she spake on and still she spake of power, 
' Which in all action is the end of all; 
Power titled to tiie season; wisdom bred 
And throned of wisdom — from all neighboring crowns 
Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 
Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me, 



CENONE. 109 



From nie, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee kiiig-born, 

A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born, 

Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power 

Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd 

Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 

Above the thunder, with undying bliss, 

In knowledge of their own supremacy.' 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
She ceas'd, and Paris held the costly fruit 
Out at arm's length, so much the thought of power 
Flatter'tl his spirit; but Pallas where she stood 
Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs 
O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear 
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, 
The while, above, her full and earnest eye 
Over her snow-cold breast and angrj' cheek 
Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. 

"' Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, 
These three alone lead life to sovereign power. 
Yet not for power (power of herself 
Would come uncall'd for), but to live by law. 
Acting the law we live by without fear; 
And, because right is right, to follow right 
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.' 

" Dear motlier Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Again she said : ' I woo thee not with gifts. 
Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am. 
So shalt thou find ine fairest. 

Yet, indeed, 
If gazing on divinity disroij'd 
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, 
Unbiass'd by self-profit, oh! rest tiiee sure 
That I should love thee well and cleave to tliee, 
So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood, 
Shall strike within thy pulse, like a God's, 
To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks, 
Daiigers, and deeds, until endurance grow 
Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown will, 
Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedoin.' 



110 CENONE. 



" Here she cens'cl, 
And Paris ponder'd, ami I cried, ' O Paris, 
Give it to Pallas! ' but he heard me not, 
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me! 

" O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Idalian Aphrodite beautiful. 

Fresh as the foam, new-bath'd in Paphian wells, 
With rosy slender fingers backward drew 
From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair 
Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat 
And shoulder: from the violets her light foot 
Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form 
Between the shadows of the vine bunches 
Floated the glowing sunlights, as she mov'd. 

" Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes. 
The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh 
Half-whisper'd in his ear, ' I promise thee 
Tne fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' 
She spoke and laugh'd: I shut my sight for fear.* 
But when I look'd, Paris had rais'd his arm. 
And I beheld great Here's angry eyes, 
As she withdrew into the golden cloud, 
And I was left alone within the bovver: 
And from that time to this I am alone, 
And I shall be alone until I die. 

" Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Fairest — whv fairest wife? Am I not fair? 
My love hath told me so a thousand times. 
Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, 
When I pass'd by, a wild and wanton pard, 
E3'ed like the evening star, with playful tail 
Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she? 
Ah me, my mountain shepheid, that my arms 
Were wound about thee, and in\' hot lips prest 
Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew 
Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains 
Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. 



CENONE. Ill 

" O mother, hear- me yet before I die. 
They caine, thej' cut away my tallest pines. 
My dark tall pines, that plum'd the craggy ledge 
High over the blue gorge, and all between 
The snowy peak and snow-white cataract 
Foster'd the callow eaglet — from beneath 
Whose thick mysterious bows in the dark morn 
The panther's roar came muffl'd, w^hile I sat 
Low in the valley. Never, never more 
Shall lone CEnone see the morning mist 
Sweep thro' them; never see them overlaid 
With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, 
Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I wish tiiat somewhere in the ruui'd folds. 
Among the fragments tumbl'd from the glens, 
Or the dry thickets, I could ineet with her, 
The Abominable, that uninvited came 
Into the fair Peleian banquet-hall. 
And cast the golden fruit upon the hoard. 
And bred this change; that I might speak my mind, 
And tell her to her face how much I hate 
Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times; 
In this green valley, under this green hill, 
Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? 
Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with tears? 
O happy tears, and how unlike to these! 
O happy Heaven, how canst thou see iny face? 
O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight? 

death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud. 
There are enough unhappy on this earth. 
Pass by the happy souls, that love to live: 

1 pray thee, pass before my light of life. 
And shadow all my soul, that I may die. 
Thou weighest heavy on the heart within. 
Weigh heavy on my evelitls: let me die. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts 
Do shape themselves within me, inore and more, 



112 



CENONE. 



Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 
Dead sounds at niglit come from the inmost hills, 
Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see 
My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother 
Conjectures of the features of her child 
Ere it is born: a child! — a shudder comes 
Across me: never child be borne of me, 
Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes! 

"O mother, liear me yet before I die. 
Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, 
Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me 
Walking the cold and starless road of Death 
Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 
With the Greek woman. I will rise and go 
Down into Trov, antl ere the stars come forth 
Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says 
A lire dances before her, and a sound 
Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 
What this miM' be I know not, but I knovv' 
That, wheresoe'er I am bv night and day. 
All earth and air seem onl3' burning fire. 





''-^«?i.S*s:°'-=-^.-.<ea^^i^'-^*v: 



" Then to the bower they came. 
Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower. 
And at their feet the crocus brake like fire." 

See fage to8. 



THE SISTERS. 



113 




THE SISTERS. 



E were two daughters of one race: 
She was the fairest in the face : 

The wind is blowing in turret and tree. 
They were together, and she fell; 
Therefore revenge became me well; 

O the Earl was fair to see! 



She died: she went to burning flame: 
She mix'ti her ancient blood with shame. 

The wiiid is howling in turret and tree. 
Whole weeks and months, and early and late. 
To win his love I lay in wait: 

O the Earl was fair to see! 

I made a feast; 1 bade him come; 
I won his love, I brought him home. 

The wind is roaring in turret and tree. 
And after supper, on a bed. 
Upon my lap he laid his head: 

O the Earl was fair to see! 



I kiss'd his eyelids into rest : 

His ruddy cheek upon my breast. 

The wind is raging in turret and tree. 
I hated him with the hate of hell, 
But I lov'd his beauty passing well. 

O the Earl was fair to see! 



1 rose up in the silent night: 

I made my dagger sharp and bright. 

The wind is raving in turret and tree. 
As half-asleep his breath he drew, 
Three times I stabb'd him ihro' and thro'. 

O the Earl was fair to see! 



114 



TO 



I cuii'd and coinb'd his comely head, 
He looked so grand when he was dead. 

Tlie wind is blowing in turret and tree. 
I wrapt his body in the sheet, 
And laid him at his mother's feet 

O the Earl was fair to see! 



•••^=*$;t;$is=s<- 



TO 



WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. 




SEND you here a sort of allegory, 

(For j'ou will understand it) of a soul, 

A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts, 
A spacious garden full of flowering weeds, 
A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain, 
That did love Beauty, only (Beauty seen 
In all varieties of mould and mind,) 
And Knowledge for its Beauty; or if Good, 
Good only for its beauty, seeing not 
That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge are three sisters 
That dote upon each other, friends to man. 
Living together under the same roof. 
And never can be sunder'd without tears. 
And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be 
Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie 
Howling in outer darkness. Not for this 
Was common clay ta'en from the common earth, 
Moulded by God, and temper'd with the tears 
Of angels to the perfect shape of man. 




XflSau 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



115 



THE PALACE OF ART. 




BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure-house, 

Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. 
I said, " O Soul, make merry and carouse. 
Dear Soul, for all is well." 

A huge crag-platf .rm, smooth as burnish'd brass, 

I chose. The ranged ramparts bright 
From level meadovv-hases of deep grass 
Suddenly scal'd the light. 



Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf 

The rock rose clear, or winding stair. 
My soul would live alone unto herself 
In her high palace there. 

And " while the world runs round and round," I said, 
" Reign thou apart, a quiet king, 
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade 
Sleeps on his luminous ring." 



To which my soul made answer readily: 

" Trust me, in bliss 1 shall abide 
In this great mansion, that is built for me, 
So royal-rich and wide." 



Four courts I made, East, West and South and North, 

In each a squared lawn, wherefrom 
The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth 
A flood of fountain-foam. 



116 THE PALACE OF ART. 



And round the cool green courts there ran a row 

Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods, 
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow 
Of spouted fountain-floods. 

And round the roofs a gilded gallery 

That lent broad verge to distant lands, 
Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky 
Dipt down to sea and sands. 

From those four jets four currents in one swell 

Across the mountain stream'd below 
In misty folds, that floating as they fell 
Lit up a torrent-bow. 

And high on every peak a statue seem'd 

To hang on tiptoe, tossing up 
A cloud of incense of all odor steam'd 
From out a golden cup. 

So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon 

My palace with unblinded eyes. 
While this great bow will waver in the sun, 
And that sweet incense rise? " 

For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd. 
And, while day sank or mounted higher. 
The light aerial gallery, golden rail'd, 
Burnt like a fringe of fire. 

Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and trac'd, 

Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires 
From shadow'd grots of arches interlac'd. 
And tipt with frost-like spires. 



Full of long-sounding corridors it was. 

That over- vaulted grateful gloom, 
Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass, 
Well-pleas'd, from loom to room. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



117 



Full of great rooms and small the palace stood, 

All various, each a perfect whole 
From living Nature, fit for every mood 
And change of my still soul. 

For some were hung with arras green and blue. 

Showing a gaudy summer-morn, 
Where with pufF'd cheek the belted hunter blew 
His wreathed bugle horn. 

One seem'd all dark and red, — a tract of sand. 

And some one pacing there alone. 
Who pac'd forever in a glimmering land, 
Lit with a low large moon. 




One show'd an iron coast and aiigiy waves. 

You seem'd to hear them climb and fall 
And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves. 
Beneath the windv wall. 



118 THE PALACE OF ART. 



And one, a full-fctl river winding slow 

By herds upon an endless plain, 
The ragged rims of thunder brooding low, 
With shadow-streaks of rain. 



And one, the reapers at their sultry toil, 

111 fronc they bound the sheaves. Behind 
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, 
And hoary to the wind. 

And one, a foreground black with stones and slags. 

Beyond a line of heights, and higher 
All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags, 
And highest, snow and fire. 

And one, an Englisli home, — gray twilight pour'd 

On dewey pastures, dewey trees. 
Softer than sleep, — all things in order stored, 
A haunt of ancient Peace. 

Nor these alone, but every landscape fair. 

As fit for every mood of mind. 
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was theie. 
Not less than truth desig-n'd. 



Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, 

In tracts of pasture sunny-warm. 
Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx 
Sat smiling, babe in arm. 

Or in a clear-wall'd citv on the sea. 
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair 
Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily; 
An angel looked at her. 

Or thronging all one porch of Paradise, 

A group of Houris bow'd to see 
The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes 
That said, ' We wait for thee.' 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



119 




Or mytliic Uther's deeply-vvounded son 
In some fair space of sjopiiig greens 
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, 
And watch'd by weeping quecris. 

Or hollowing one hand 'gainst his ear, 

To list a foot-fall, ere he saw 
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to hear 
Of wisdom and of law. 

Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, 

And many a tract of palm and rice. 
The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd 
A summer fann'd with spice. 



Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd, 
From oif her shouldei- backward borne: 
From one hand droop'd a crocus: one hand grasp'd 
The mild bull's golden horn. 



120 THE PALACE OF ART. 



Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh 

Half-buried in the eagle's down, 
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky 
Above the pillar'd town. 

Nor these alone: but every legend fair 
Which the supreme Caucasian mind 
Carv'd out of Nature for itself, was there, 
Not less than life, design'd. 



Then in the towers I plac'd great bells that swung, 

Mov'd of themselves, with silvef sound : 
And with choice paintings of wise men I hung 
The royal dais round. 

For there was Milton like a seraph strong. 
Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild; 
And tiiere the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song. 
And somewhat grimly smiled. 

And there the Ionian father of the rest; 

A million wrinkles carv'd his skin; 
A hundred winters snow"d upon his breast, 
From cheek and throat and chin. 

Above, the fair hall- ceiling stately-set 

Many an arch high up did lift. 
And Angels rising and descending met 
With interchange of gift. 

Below was all mosaic choicely planu'd 

With c)'cles of the human tale 

Of this wide world, the times of every land 

So wrought, they will not fail. 
I 

The people here, a Ijeast of burden slow, 

Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and stings: 
Here play'd a tiger, rolling to and fro 
The heads and crowns of kings; 







' And one, the reapers at their sultry toil." 

See fnge ii8. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 121 



Here rose an athlete, strong to break or bind 

All force in bonds that might endure, 
And here once more like some sick man declin'd, 
And trusted any cure. 

But over these she trod : and those great bells 

Began to chime. She took her throne: 
She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, 
To sing her songs alone. 

And thro' the topmost Oriels' color'd flame 

Two godlike faces gazed below; 
Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Verulam, 
The first of those who know. 

Antl ail those names, that in their motion were 

Full-welling fountain-heads of change. 
Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair 
In diverse raiment strange: 

Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue, 

Flush'd in her temples and her eyes. 
And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, diew 
Rivers of jnelodies. 

No nightingale delighteth to prolong 

Her low preamble all alone, 
More than my soul to hear her echo'd song 
Throb thro' the libbed stone; 

Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth, 
Joying to feel herself alive, 
. Lord over nature, loid of the visible earth, 
Lord of the senses five; 

Communing with herself: "All these are mine, 

And let the world have peace or wars 
'Tis one to me." She — when young night divine 
Crown'd dying day with stars. 

Making sweet close of iiis delicious toils — 
Lit light in wreaths and anadems. 



122 THE PALACE OF ART. 



And pure quintessences of precious oils 
In liollow'd moons of gems, 

To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and cried: 

" I marvel if my still delight 
In this great house so royal-rich, and wide, 
Be flatter'd to the height. 

"O all things fair to satfe my various eyes! 

shapes and hues that please me well! 
O silent faces of the Great and Wise, 

My Gods, with whom I dwell! 

" O God-like isolation which art mine, 

1 can but count thee perfect gain, 

What tnne I watch the dark'ning droves of swine 
That range on yonder plain. 

" In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, 

They graze and wallow, breed and sleep; 
And oft some brainless devil enters in. 
And drives them to the deep." 

Then of the moral instinct would she prate. 

And of the rising from the dead. 
As hers by right of fuU-accomplish'd Fate ; 
And at the last she said : 



« I take possession of man's mind and deed, 

I care not what the sects may brawl. 
I sit as God holding no form of creed, 
But contemplating all." 



Full oft the riddle of tiie painful earth 

Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone, 
Yet not the less she held her solemn mirth, 
And intellectual throne. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 123 



And so she throve and prosper'd : so three years 

She prosper'd : on tlie fourth she fell. 
Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears, 
Struck thro' with pangs of hell. 

Lest she should fall and perish utterly, 

God, before whom ever lie bare 
The abysmal deeps of Personality, 
Plagued her with- sore despair. 

When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight. 

The airy hand confusion wrought. 

Wrote "Mene, mene," and divided quite 

The kingdom of her thought. 

Deep dread and loathing of her solitude 
Fell on her, from which mood was born 

Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood 
Laughter at her self-scorn. 

"What! is not this my place of strength," she said, 

" My spacious mansion built for me, 
Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid 
Since my first memory?" 

But in dark corners of her palace stood 

Uncertain shapes; and unawares 
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood, 

And horrible nightmares, 

And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, 

And, with dim fretted fot'eheads all, 
On corpses three months old, at noon she came, 
That stood against the wall. 

A spot of dull stagnation, without light 

Or power of movement, seem'd my soul, 
'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite 
Making for one sure goal. 

A still salt poolj lock'd in with bars of sand; 
Left on the shore; that hears all night 



124 THE PALACE OF ART. 

The plunging seas draw backward from the land 
Their moon-led waters white. 

A star tliat with the choral starry dance 

Join'd not. but stood, and standing saw 
The hollow orb of moving Circumstance 
Roll'd round by one fix'd law. 

Back on herself her serpent pride had curled. 

" No voice," she shriek'd in that lone hall, 
"No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world: 
One deep, deep silence all!" 

She, moukrring with the dull earth's mould'ring sod, 

Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame. 
Lay there exiled from eternal God, 
Lost to her place and name; 

And death and life she hated equally, 

And nothing saw, for her despair, 
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity. 
No comfort anywhere; 

Remaining utterly confus'd with fears. 
And ever worse with growing time, 
And ever unreliev'd by dismal tears. 
And all alone in crime: 

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, gii t round 

With blackness as a solid wall, 
Far off she secm'd to liear the dully sound 
Of human footsteps fall. 

As in strange lands a traveller walking slow, 

In doubt and great perplexity, 
A little before moon-rise hears the low 
Moan of an unknown sea. 

And knows not if it be thunder or a sound 
Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry 
Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, " I have found 
A new land, but I die." 



LADT CLARA VERB DE VERB. 



125 



She hovvl'd aloud, " I am on fire within. 

There comes no murmur of reply. 
What is it that will take away my sin, 
And save me lest I die? " 

So when four years were wholly finished, 

She threw her royal robes away, 
" Make me a cottage in the vale," she said, 

" Where I may mourn and pray." 

" Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are 

So lightly, beautifully built: 
Perchance I may return with others there 
When I have purg'd my guilt." 



■*5a«-Sig-*s:S«-- 



LADY CLARA VERB DE VERE. 



^ ADY Clara Vere de Vere, 

Of nie you shall not win renown: 
'/ You thought to break a country- heart 
';^ For pastime, ere you went to town. 

At me you smil'd, but unbeguil'd 
■"■'"^^feT' I saw the snare, and I retir'd: 
r - ^-o ■ The daughter of a hundred Earls 
You are not one to be desired. 



Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

I know \'ou proud to bear your name. 
Your pritle is yet no mate for mine. 

Too proud to care from whence I came. 

Nor would I break for your sweet sake 
A heart that dotes on truer charms. 

A simple maiden in her flower 
Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 




126 LADT CLARA VERB DE VERE. 



Lady Clara Vere de Veie, 

Some meeker pupil you must find, 
For were you queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love, 

And mj' disdain is ni)^ reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than I. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

You put strange memories in my head. 
Not thrice jour branching limes have blown 

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 
Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies: 

A great enchantress you may be; 
But there was that across his throat 

Which you had hardly cared to see. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

When thus he met his mother's view. 
She had the passions of her kind, 

She spake some certain truths of you. 
Indeed I heard one bitter word 

That scarce is fit for you to hear; 

Her manners had not that repose 
Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. 

Ladv Clara Vere de Vere, 

There stands a spectre in your hall • 
The guilt of blood is at your door: 

You chang'd a wholesome heart to gall. 
You held your course without remorse, 

To make hnn trust his modest worth, 
And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare. 

And slew him with your noble birth. 

Tiust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

From yon blue heavens above us bent 
The grand old gardener and his wife 

Smile at the claims of long descent. 
Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 

'Tis only noble to he good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets. 

And simple faith than Norman blood. 



LADT CLARA VERB DE VERB. 



127 




I know you, Clara Vere de Vere : 

You pine among 3'our halls and towers 
The languid light of 3'our proud eyes 

Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
In glowing health, with boundless wealth, 

But sickening of a vague disease. 
You know so ill to deal with time, 

You needs must play such pranks as tliese. 



Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If Time be heavy on your hands, 
Are there no beggars at 3'our gate. 

Nor any poor aljout j-our lands? 
Oh! teach the orphan-bov to read. 

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew. 
Pray Heaven for a human heart. 

And let the foolish j-eoman go. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 




THE MAY QUEEN. 



jOU must wake and call me earl}-, call me early, mother dear; 
^ To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year; 
^^Ot" all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest meniest day ; 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

There's many a black, black eye, they sav, but none so bright as mine; 
There's Margaret and Marv, there's Kate and Caroline: 
But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say. 
So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 



I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, 

If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break: 

But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands ga)', 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him vesterdav, — 

But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, 

And I ran bv him without speaking, like a flash of light. 

They call me cruel-liearted, but I care not wliat they say, 

For I'm to be Queen o' tlie May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 



They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be: 

They say his heart is breaking, inother — what is that to me? 

There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 



THE MAT QUEEN. 



12^ 



Little Effic shall go with me to-morrow to the green, 

And you'll be tliere, too, mother, to see me made the Queen; 

For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away. 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray. 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, 
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass; 
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May 

All the valley, mother, 'ill he fresh and green and still. 

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are ever all the hill. 

And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play. 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 




So 3'ou must wake and call me early, call nie carh-, mother dear, 
To-mon'ow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year; 
To-morrow 'ill be of nil the year the maddest merriest dav. 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 
9 



130 



THE MAY QUEEN. 



NEW YEARS' EVE. 



"" 1 ?! 




t F you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear^ 
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. 
It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, 
Then you inay lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me. 



To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind 
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mina; 
And the New^-year's coming up, mother, hut I shall never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 




Last Ma}' we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day; 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; 
And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse. 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white ciiimney-tops. 



There's not a flower on all the hills; the frost is oii the jjane: 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again: 
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high: 
I longf to see a flower so before the day I die. 



THE MA r Q UEEN. 131 



The building rook 'ill c;iw from the windy tall elrri-tree, 

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 

And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave, 

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. 

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, 
In the eaidy early morning the summer sun 'ill shine. 
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill. 
When you arc warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still, 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light 
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; 
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. 

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, 
And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. 
I shall not forget you mother, I shall hear you when )-ou pass, 
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. 

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now; 
You'll kiss me, iny own mother, and forgive me ere I go; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild. 
You should not fret for me, mother, yon have another child. 

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; 
Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; 
Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say. 
And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. 

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night forevermore, 
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door; 
I)on't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green; 
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. 

She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor; 
Let her take 'em: they are hers: I shall never garden more: 
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rush-bush that I set 
About the parlor-window and the box of mignonette. 

Good-night, sweet mother; call me before the day is born, 
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, 
So, if you're waking, call me, ciill me early, mother dear. 



132 



THE MAY QUEEN. 



CONCLUSION. 



^feuu^ - 



A 



I THOUGHT to pass away before, and yet alive I am; 
^ And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. 

How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year! 

To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. 



O sweet IS the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, 
And sweeter is the voung lamb's voice to me that cannot rise. 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, 
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. 



It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, 
And now it seems as liard to stay, and yet His will be done! 
But still I think it can't be long before I find release; 
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace, 

O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair! 

And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there! 

blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! 

A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. 

He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. 
Now, tho' ni)' lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in; 
Nor would I novv be well, mother again, if that could be, 
Por my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 

1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, 
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet; 
£ut sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, 
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 



All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call; 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, 
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. 



THE MAT qUEEN. 



133 




For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effiedear; 
I saw you sitting in the hous>c, and I no longer here; 
With all mv strength I pray'd tor both, and so I felt resign'd 
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, 
And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said; 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all ni}- mind, 
And up the vallev came again the music on the wind. 

But you were sleeping: and I said, "It's not for them: it's mine." 
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. 
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, 
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. 



So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know 
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. 



134 



THE MAT QCrEEN. 



And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; 
There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. 
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his ■wife; 
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 

O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; 

He shnies upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. 

And there I move no longer now, and tliere his light may shine — 

Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 

O sweet and strange it seems to me that ere this daj- is done 
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — 
Forever and forever with those just souls and true — 
And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado? 

Forever and forever, all in a blessed home — 

And there to wait a little while till you and Eflie come — 

To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — 

And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 




THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



135 



-f€ 



^0r 


^-wk 





THE LOTOS-EATERS. 




OURAGE!" he said, and pointed toward the land, 
"This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." 
"^ In the afternoon they came unto a land 
In whicii it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did swoon, 
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
FuU-fac'd above the valley stood the moon; 
And like a downward smoke the slender stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. 



136 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke. 

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; 

And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, 

Rolling St slumberous sheet of foam below. 

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 

From the inner land: far ofT, three mountain-tops, 

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 

Stood sunset-flush'd : and, dew'd with showery drops, 

Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.'' 




The charmed sunset linger'd low adown 

In the fed West: thro' mountain clefts the dale 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 

Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale 

And meadow, set w^ith slender galingale: 

A land where all things always seem'd the samet 

And round about the keel with faces pale, 

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, 

The mild-eyed melancl.oly Lotos-eaters came. 



Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, 

Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave 

To each, but whoso did receive of them. 

And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 

Far, far away did seem to mourn and rave 

On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, 

His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; 

And deep asleep he seem'd, 3'et all awake, 

And music in his ears his beating- heart did make. 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



137 



They sat them down upon the yellow sand, 
Between the sun and moon upon the shore; 
And sweet it was to dream ot Fatherland, 
Of child, and wife., and slave; but evermore 
Most weary seeni'd the sea, weary the oar 
Weary the wandering fields of bairen toam. 
Then some one said, " We will return no more"; 
And all at once they sang, " Our island home 
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam." 



CHORIC SONG. 




INHERE IS sweet music here that softer falls 
■J|1^m[C Than petals from blown roses on the grass, 

Or night-dews on still waters between walls 

Ot shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; 

Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, 

Than tir'd eyelids i;pon tir'd eyes: 
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep, 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep. 
And in the stream the long-leav'd flowers weep. 
And from tne craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. 



Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness. 

And utterly consum'd with sharp distress. 

While all tilings else have rest from weariness?. 

All things have rest: why should we toil alone. 

We only toil, who are the first of things. 

And make perpetual inoan. 

Still from one sorrow to another thrown : 

Nor ever fold our wings. 

And cease from wanderings. 

Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; 

Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, 

" There is no joy but calm! " 

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? 



Lo! in tbe middle of the wood. 
The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud 
With winds upon the branch and there 
Grows green and broad, and takes no care. 



138 THE LOTOS-EATERS. 

Siin-steep'd at noon, and in the moon 

Niglitly (lew-fed ; and turninof yellow 

Fails, and floats adown the air. 

Lo! sweeten'd with the summer .ight, 

The full-juiced apple, waxing- over-mellow. 

Drops in a silent autumn night. 

All its allotted length of days, 

The flower ripens in its place, 

Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil 

Fast-rooted in the fiuitful soil. 

Hateful is the dark-hlue sky. 

Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 

Death is the end of life; ah, why 

Should life all labor be? 

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, 

And in a little while our lips are dumb. 

Let us alone. What is it that will last? 

All things are taken from us, and become 

Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. 

Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 

To war with e\il? Is there anv peace 

In ever climbing up the climbing wave? 

All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave 

In silence; ripen, fall and cease: 

Give us long lest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. 

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, 

WMth halt-shut eyes ever to seem 

Falling asleep in a half-dream! 

To dream and dream, like vonder amber light, 

Whicii will not leave the mvrrh-bush on the height; 

To hear each others \vhispcrd speech; 

Eating the Lotos day bv ilav, 

To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, 

And lender curving lines of creamv spray; 

To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 

To the influence of mild-minded melancholv; 

To muse antl brood and live again in memory. 

With those old faces of our infancy 

Heap'd civer with a mound of grass. 

Two handtuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! 

Dear is the memory of our -wedded lives. 
And dear the last embraces of our wives 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 139 

And their warm tears; but all hath sufFer'd change; 
For surely now our household hearths are cold: 
Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange: 
And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. 
Or else the island princes, over-bold 
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings 
Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, 
And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. 
Is there confusion in the little isle? 
l^et what is broken so remain. 
The Gods are hard to reconcile: 
Tis hard to settle order once again. 
There is confusion worse than death. 
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, 
Long labor unto aged breath, 
Sore task to he'irts worn out with many wars 
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. 

But, propt on beds ot amaranth and moly. 

How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) 

With half-dropt eyelids still. 

Beneath a heaven dark and holy. 

To watch the long bright river drawing slowly 

His waters from the purple hill — 

To hear the dewy echoes calling 

From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine — 

To watch the emerald-color'd water falling 

Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine! 

Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine. 

Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine. 

The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: 

The Lotos blows by every winding creek : 

All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: 

Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone 

Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is 

blown. 
We have had enough of action, and of motion we, 
Roll d to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was 

seething free, 
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in 

on the sea. 
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind. 
In the hollow Lotos-land to live, and lie reclin'd 
On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. 



140 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd 

Far below them in the vallej's, and the clouds are lighty cml'd 

Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world; 

Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, 

Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery 

sands. 
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and pray- 
ing hands. 
But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, 
Like a tale of little meaning tho' tlie words are strong; 
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest witii enduring toil, 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; 
Till they perish and they suffer — some, 'tis whisper'd — down in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell. 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore 
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oat: 
O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. 




A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



141 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 




^ READ, before my eyelids dropt their shade, 

" The Legend of Good Women " long ago 



?'■ Xr^. Sung by the morning star of song, who made 
^_^ tr^ His music heard below; 

p Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath 
Preluded those melodious bursts that fill 
The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
With sounds that echo still. 

And, for a while, the knowledge of j-iis art 

Held me above the subject, as strong gales 

Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' my heart, 
Brimful of those wild tales, 

Charg'd both mine eyes with tears. In every land 

I saw, wherever light illumineth. 
Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand 
The downward slope to death. 



Those far-renowned brides of ancient song 

Peopl'd the hollow dark, like burning stars. 

And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong. 
And trumpets blown for wars; 

And clattering flints batter'd with clanging hoofs: 
And I saw crowds in column'd sanctuaries; 

And forms that pass'd at windows and on roofs 
Of marble palaces; 



Corpses across the threshold ; heroes tall 
Dislodging pinnacle and parapet 

Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall; 
Lances in ambush set; 



142 



.1 DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



And high shiine-doors burst thro' with heated blasts 
That run before the fluttering tongues of fire; 

White surf wind-scatter'd over sails and masts, 
And ever climbing higher; 

Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates, 
Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes. 

Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates, 
And hush'd seraglios. 




So shape chas'd shape as swift as, when to land 

Bluster the winds and tides the self-same ^vay, 

Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand. 
Torn from the fringe of spray. 

I started once, or seem'd to start in pain, 

Resolv'd on noble things, and strove to speak, 

As when a great thought strikes along the brain. 
And flushes all the cheek. 

And once my arm was lifted to hew down 
A cavalier from oflf his saddle-bow, 

That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town ; 
And then; I know not hov/, 



All those sharp fancies by down-lapsing thought 

Stream'd onward, lost their edges, and did creep, 

RoU'd on each other, rounded, smooth'd, and brought 
Into the gulfs of sleep. 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 143 

At last methought that I had wander'd i-AX 

In an old wood : fresh wash'd in coolest dew, 

The maiden splendors of the morning star 
Shook in the steadfast blue. 

Enormous elm-tree boles did stoop and lean 

Upon the dusky brushwood underneath 
Their broad curv'd branches, fledged with clearest green. 

New from its silken sheath. 

The dim ]ed morn had died, her journey done, 

And with dead lips smil'd at the twilight plain, 

Half-fall'n across the threshold of the sun. 
Never to rise again. 

There was no motion in the dumb dead air, 

Not any song of bird or sound of rill; 
Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre 

Is not so deadly still 

As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine turn'd 

Their humid arms festooning tree to tree, 
And at the root thro' lush green grasses burn'd 

The retl anemone. 

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew 

The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn 
On those long, rank, dark wood-walks drench'd in dew, 

Leading from lawn to lawn. 

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, 

Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame 
The times when I remember to have been 

Joyful and free from blame. 

And from within me a clear under-tone 

Thrill'd thro' mine ears in that unblissfull clime, 

"Pass freely thro': the wood is all thine own, 
Until the end of time." 

At length I saw a lady within call, 

Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing there; 
A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 

And most divinely fair. 



144 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 

Her loveliness with shame and with surprise 

Froze my swift speech; she turning on my face 

The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, 
Spoke slowly in her place. 

" I had great beauty: ask thou not my name: 
No one can be more wise than destin}'. 

Many drew swords and died. Where'er I came 
I brought calamity." 

"No marvel, sovereign lad)': in fair field 

Myself for such a face had boldly died." 
,1 answer'd free; and turning I appeal'd 
To one that stood beside. 

But she, ^vith sick and scornful looks averse, 

To her full height her stately stature draws; 

■" My youth," she said, " was blasted with a curse: 
This woman was the cause. 

■" I was cut off from hope in tiiat sad place, 

Whicli yet to name my spirit loathes and fears: 

My father held his hand upon his face: 
I, blinded with my tears, 

•♦'Still strove to speak: my voice was thick with sighs 
As in a dream. Dimly I could descry 

The stern black-bearded kings with wolfish eyes, 
Waiting to see me die. 

*' The high masts flicker'd as they lay afloat; 

The crowds, the temples, waver'd, and the shore; 
The bright death quiver'd at the victim's throat; 

Touch'd ; and I knew no moie." 

AVhereto the other with a downward brow: 

" I would the white cold heavy-plunging foam, 

Whirl'd by the wind, had roll'd me deep below, 
Then when I left my home." 

Her slow full words sank thro' the silence drear. 
As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea; 




'A queen with swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes." 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 145 



Sudden I heard a voice thnt cried, " Come here, 
That 1 may look on thee." 

I turning saw, thron'd on a flowerv rise, 

One sitting on a crimson scarf unroll'd; 

A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes, 
Brow-bound with burning gold. 

She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began: 

" I govern'd men by change, and so I swav'd 

All moods. 'Tis long since I have seen a man. 
Once, like the moon, I made 

" The ever-shifting currents of the blood 
According to my humor ebb and flow. 

I have no men to govern in this wood: 
That makes my only woe. 

" Nay — yet it chafes me that 1 could not bend 

One will; nor tame and tutor with mine eve 

That dull cold-blooded Cajsar. Prythee, friend. 
Where is Mark Antony? 

" The man, my lover, with whom I rode sublime 
On Fortune's neck: we sat as God by God; 

The Nilus would have risen before his time 
And flooded at our nod. 

" We drank the Libyan sun to sleep, and lit 

Lamps which outburn'd Canopus. O my life 

In Egypt! O the dalliance and the wit. 
The flattery and the strife. 



" And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's alarms, 

JSIv Hercules, my Roman Antony, 
My mailed Bacchus leapt into mv arms. 

Contented there to die! 

"And there he died: and when I heard my name 
Sigh'd forth with life I would not brook my fear 

Of the other: with a worm I balk'd his fome. 
What else was left? look here!" 



10 



146 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



(With that slie tore her robe apart, and half 
The poHsh'd argent of her breast to sight 

Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh, 
Showing the aspic's bite.) 







" I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found 

Me lying dead, my crown about my brows, 

A name forever! — lying robed and crown'd, 
Worth)' a Roman spouse." 

Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range 

Struck by all passion, did fall down and glance 

From tone to tone, and glided thro' all change 
Of liveliest utterance. 

When she made pause I knew not for deliglit; 

Because with sudden motion from the ground 
She rais'd her piercing orbs, and fill'd with light 

The interval of sound. 



Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest darts; 

As once they drew into two burning rings 
All beams of Love, melting the mighty hearts 

Of captains and of kings. 



A DREAM OF FAIli WOMEN. 



147 



Slowly my sense iimlazzled. Theii I lie:inl 

A noise of some one comini^ tliro' tlie hivvn, 

And singinjij clearer than the crested hiril, 
That claps his wings at dawn. 

" The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel 

From craggy hollows pouring, late and soon, 

S()un<l all night long, in falling thro' the dell, 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 




" The balmy moon of blessed Israel 

Floods all the deep-blue gloom with beams divine: 
All night the splinter'd crags that wall the dell 

With spires of silver shine." 



As one tliat museth where broad sunshine laves 
The lawn of some cathedral, thro' the door 

Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 
Of sound on roof and floor 



148 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



Within, and anthein sung, is charm'ol and tied 

To where he stands,— so stood I, wlien that flow 

Of music left the lips of her that died 
To save her father's vow ; 

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, 

A maiden pure; as when she went along 

From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with welcome light, 
With timbrel and with song. 

My words leapt forth : " Heaven heads the count of crimes 
With that wild oath." She render'd answer high: 

" Not so, nor once alone; a thousand times 
I would be born and die. 

" Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root 
Creeps to the garden water-pipes beneath. 

Feeding the flower; but ere my flower to fruit 
Chang'd, I was ripe for death. 

" My God, my land, mj- father, — these did move 
Me from mj' bliss of life, that Nature gave, 
Lowei-'d softly with a threefold cord of love 
Down to a silent grave. 

"And I went mourning, ' No fair Hebrew boy 
Shall smile away my maiden blame among 

The Hebrew mothers ' — emptied of all joy. 
Leaving the dance and song, 

" Leaving the olive-gardens far below. 

Leaving the promise of my bridal bower. 

The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow 
Beneath the battled tower. 

" The light white cloud swam over us. Anon 
We heard the lion roaring from his den ; 

We saw the large white stars rise one bv one. 
Or, from the darken'd glen, 

" Saw God divide the night with flying flame. 
And thunder on the everlasting hills. 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



149 



1^ ■- '" -'^''- '■"-' - ' ' '' 


_^._ . .^.,. 


m' 




fcM::„ 




^^^fc" " ' 






I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became 
A solemn scorn of ills. 



" When the next moon was roll'd into the sky. 
Strength came to me that equall'd my desire. 

How beautiful a thing it was to die 
For God and for my sire! 

" It comforts mc in this one thought to dwell, 
That I subdu'd me to my father's will; 

Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell. 
Sweetens the spirit still. 

" Moreover it is written that my race 

Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer 

On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her face 
Glow'd as I look'd at her. 



She lock'd her lips: she left me where I stood: 
'■ Glory to God," she sang, and past afar, 

Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood. 
Toward the morning-star. 



150 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 

Losing her enrol I stood pensively, 

As one that from a casement leans his head, 

When midnight hells cease ringing suddenly, 
And the old year is dead. 

"Alas! alas!" a low voice, full of care, 

Murmur'd beside me: " Turn and look on me: 

I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair, 
If what I was I be. 

" Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor! 

O me, that I should ever see the light! 
Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor 

Do haunt me, day and night." 

She ceas'd in tears, fallen from hope and trust. 

To whom the Egyptian: " O, you tamely died! 
You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, and thrust 

The dagger thro' her side." 

With that sharp sound the white dawn's creeping beams, 
Stol'n to my brain, dissolv'd the mystery 

Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams 
Rul'd in the eastern sky. 

Morn broaden'd on the borders of the dark, 

Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last trance 

Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of Arc, 
A light of ancient France; 

O, her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death, 
Who kneeling, with one arm about her king. 

Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, 
Sweet as new buds in Spring. 

T>Jo memory labors longer from the deep 

Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore 

That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep 
To tratlier and tell o'er 

Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain 
Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to strike 




t.A?^v 



.'1 



JOAN OF ARC, 



1 



MARGARET. 



151 



Into that wondrous track of dreams a^ain! 
But no two dreams arc like. 

As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, 
Desiring what is mingl'd with past years, 

In yearning that can never be exprest 
By signs or groans or tears; 

Because all words, the' cuU'd with choicest art, 
Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, 

Wither beneath the palate, and the heart 
Faints, faded by its heat. 



-^*$;-g«ss<— 



MARGARET. 




'^ 

\ SWEET pale Margaret, 
O rare pale Margaret, 
What lit your eyes with tearful power, 
Like moonlight on a falling shower? 
i^. Who lent you, love, your mortal dower 
i^'J^ ^-^^ pensive thought and aspect pale, 

^ Your melanchol}^ sweet and frail 

As perfume of the cuckoo-flower? 
From the westward winding flood, 
From the evening-lighted wood. 

From all things outward vou have won 
A tearful grace, as tho' you stood 

Between the rainbow and the sun. 
The verv smile before vou speak. 
That dimples your transparent check, 

Encircles all the hcait, and fecdeth 
The senses with a still delight 

Of dainty sorrow without sound. 
Like the tender amber round. 
Which the moon about her spreadeth 
Moving thro' a fleecy night. 



152 MARGARET. 



You love, remaining peacefully, 

To hear the murmur of the strife, 
But enter not the toil of life. 

Your spirit is the calmed sea. 

Laid by the tumult of the fight. 

You are the evening star, alvvay 

Remaining betwixt dark and bright: 

LuU'd echoes of laborious day 

Come to you, gleams of yellow light 
Float by you on the verge of night. 

What can it matter, Margaret, 

What songs below the waning stars 
The lion-heart, Plantagenet, 

Sang looking thro' his prison bars? 
Exquisite Margaret, who can tell 
The last wild thought of Chatalet, 
Just ere the fallen axe did part 
The burning brain from the true heart. 
Even in her sight he loved so well? 

A fairy shield your Genius made 

And gave you on your natal day. 
Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade, 

Keeps real sorrow far away. 
You move not in such solitudes. 

You arc not less divine. 
But more human in your moods. 

Than your twin-sister, Adeline. 
Your hair is darker, and your eves 

Touch'd with a somewhat darker hue. 

And less aerially blue 

But ever trembling thro' the dew 
Of dainty-woful ^vmpathies. 

O sweet pale Margaret, 
O rare pale Margaret, 
Come down, come down, and hear me speak: 
Tie up the ringlets on your cheek : 

The sun is just about to set. 
The arching limes are tall and shady. 
And faint, rainy lights are seen. 
Moving in the leafy beech. 



"^s^ 



V ^ 












-4? 







im^x^ 



"Blackbird ! sing me something well." 



THE BLACKBIRD. 



153 



Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady. 

Where all day long you sit between 
Joy and woe, and whisper each. 

Or onlj' look across the lawn. 

Look out below your bower-eaves. 

Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn 
Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. 



THE BLACKBIRD. 





Blackbird! sing me something well. 

While all the neighbors shoot thee round, 
I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, 

Where thou may'st warble, eat, and dwell. 



J ,.'"^ The espaliers and the standards all 
■^) Are thine; the range of lawn and park: 

The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, 
^^^) All thine, against the garden wall. 



Yet, tho' I spared thee all the Spring, 
Thy sole delight is, sitting still. 
With that gold dagger of thy bill 
To fret the Summer jenneting. 

A golden bill! the silver tongue, 

Cold Februarv loved, is dry : 

Plenty corrupts the melodv 
That made thee famous once, when young: 

And in the sultr\' garden-squares, 

Now thy flute notes are chang'd to coarse, 
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse 

As when a hawker hawks his wares. 



Take warning! he that will not sing: 
While yon sun prospers in the blue, 
Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, 

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 



154 



THE GOOSE. 



THE GOOSE. 




KNEW an old wife lean and poor, 

Her rags scarce held together; 
There strode a stranger to the door, 

And it was windj' weather. 

He held a goose upon his arm, 

He utter'd rhyme and reason, 
" Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, 

It is a stormy season." 



She caught the white goose by the leg. 

A goose — 'twas no great matter. 
The goose let fall a golden egg 

With cackle and \vith clatter. 

She dropt the goose and caught the pelf. 
And ran to tell her neighbors; 
And bless'd herself, and curs'd herself. 
And rested from her labors. 



And feeding high, and living soft. 
Grew plump and able-bodied ; 

Until the grave churchwarden doft'd, 
The parson smirk'd and nodded. 

So sitting, servVl by man and maid, 
She felt her heart grow prouder: 

But ah! the more the white goose laid 
It clack'd and cackled louder. 



It clutter'd here, it chuckled there; 

It stirr'd the old wife's mettle: 
She shifted in her elbow-chair. 

And hurl'd the pan and kettle.' 



THE GOOSE. 



155 



" A quinsy choke thy cursetl note! " 
Then wax'd her anger stronger. 

" Go, take the goose, and wnng her throat, 
I will not bear it longer." 

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat; 

Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer; 
The goose flew this way and flew that, 

And fill'd the house with clamor. 




As head and heels upon the floor 
They flounder'd all together, 

There strode a stranger to the door, 
And it was windy weather: 



He took the goose upon his arm, 
He utter'd words of scorning; 

" So keep you cold, or keep you warm. 
It is a stormy morning." 



156 



O DARLING ROOM. 



The wjld wind rang from park and plain, 
And ronnd the attics rumbled, 

Till all the tables danc'd again 
And half the chimneys tumbled. 

The glass blew in, the fire blew out, 
The blast was hard and harder. 

Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, 
And a whirlwind clear'd the larder; 

And while on all sides breaking loose 
Her household fled the danger. 

Quoth she, " The Devil take the goose, 
And God forget the stranger." 



r»S*- 



O DARLING ROOM. 



|_^ DARLING room, my heart's delight. 
Dear room, the apple of my sight. 
With thy two couches soft and white, 
There is no room so exquisite. 
No little room so warm and bright, 
Wherein to read, wherein to write 




For I the Nonnenwerth have seen, 
And Oberwinter's vinej^ards green, 
Musical Lurlei ; and between 
The hills to Bingen have I been, 
Bingen in Darmstadt, where the Rhene 
Curves toward Mentz, a woody scene. 



Yet ne\er ditl there meet my sight. 

In any town to left or right, 

A little room so exquisite. 

With two such couches soft and white; 

Not any room so warm and bright, 

Wherein to read, wherein to write. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD TEAR. 



Yiy'i 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD TEAR. 




ULL knee deep lies the winter snow, 

And the winter winds are wearily sighing; 
, Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, 
And tread softly and speak low, 
For the old year lies a-dying. 
Old year, you must not die: 
You came to us so readily, 
You lived with us so steadily, 
Old year, you shall not die. 

He lictii still: he doth not move: 

He will not see the dawn of day. 

He hath no other life above. 

He gave me a friend, and a true, true-love, 

And the New-year will take 'em av\^-iv. 

Old year, you must not go; 

So long as you have been with us. 

Such joj- as you have seen with us, 

Old yeai-, you shall not go. 



He froth'd his bumpers to the brim; 

A jollier year we shall not see. 

But tho' his eyes are waxing dim. 

And tho' his foes speak ill of him. 

He was a friend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die; 
We did so laugh and cry with you, 
I've half a mind to die with you. 
Old year, if you must die. 



He was full of joke and jest, 
But all his merry quips are o'er. 
To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste. 
But he'll be dead before. 

Every one for his own. 

The night is starry and cold, my friend. 



158 



TO y- 



And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, 
Connes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes! over the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro : 
The cricket chirps: the light burns low: 
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. 

Shake hands, before you die. 

Old year, we'll dearlv rue for you: 

What is it we can do for you? 

Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 
Alack! our friend is gone. 
Close up his eyes: tie up his chin; 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 
That standeth there alone. 

And waiteth at the door. 

There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, 

And a new face at the door, my friend, 

A new fice at the door. 






TO y- 



S- 




c-HE wind, that beats the mountain, blows 
^ More softly round the open wold, 
And gently comes the world to those 
That are cast in gentle mould. 

And me this knowledge bolder made, 
Or else I had not dared to flow 

In these words toward you, and invade 
Even with a verse your holj' woe. 



'Tis strange that those we lean on most, 
Those in whose laps our limbs are nurs'd. 



TO y 5 . 159 

Fall into shadow, soonest lost: 

Those we love first arc taken first. 

God gives us love. Something- to love 
, He lends us; but, when love is grown 
To ripeness, that on which it throve 
Falls off, and love is left alone. 

This is the curse of time. Alas! 

In grief I am not all unlearn'd ; 
Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass; 

One went, who never hath returned. 

He will not smile — not speak to me 

Once more. Two years his chair is seen 

Empty before us. That was he 
Without whose life I had not been. 

Your loss is rarer; for tliis star 

Rose with you thro' a little arc 
Of heaven, nor having vvander'd far 

Shot on the sudden into dark. 

I knew your brother: his mute dust 

I honor and his living worth: 
A man more pure and bold and just 

Was never born into the earth. 

I have not look'd upon you nigh. 

Since that dear soul had fall'n asleep. 
Great Nature is more wise than I : 

I will not tell you not to weep. 

And the' mine own eyes fill with dew. 

Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, 
I will not even preach to you, 

" Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain." 

Let Grief be her own mistress still. 

She loveth her own anguish deep 
More than much pleasure. Let her will 

Be done — to weep or not to weep. 



160 TO J- 



I will not say, " God's ordinance 

Of death is blown in every wind "; 

For that is not a common chance 
That takes away n noble mind. 

His memory long will live alone 
In all our hearts, as mournful light 

That broods above the fallen sun, 

And dwells in heaven half the night. 

Vain solace! Memory standing near 
Cast down lier eyes, and in her throat 

Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear 
DroDt on the letters as I wrote. 

I wrote I know not what. In truth. 
How should I soothe you anyway. 

Who miss the brother of your youth? 
Yet something I did wish to say : 

For he too was a friend to me: 

Both are my friends, and my true breast 
Bleedeth for both : 3'et it may be 

That only silence suiteth best. 

Words weaker than your grief would make 
Grief more. 'Twere better I should cease; 

Although myself could almost take 

The place of him that sleeps in peace. 

Sleep svk^eetly, tender heart, in peace ; 

Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul. 
While the stars burn, the moons increase, 

And the great ages onward roll. 

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet, 
Nothing comes to thee new or strange, 

Sleep full of rest from head to feet; 
Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. 




FREEDOM. 



161 



FREEDOM. 




\> 



F old sat Freedom on the heights, 

The thunders breaking at her feet, 
Above her shook the starry lights; 
She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice, 
Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind. 

But fragments of lier mighty voice 
Came rolling on the wind. 



Then stept she down thro' town and field 
To mingle with the human race, 
And part by part to men reveal'd 

The fulness of her face — 

Grave mother of majestic works, 

From her isle-altar gazing down. 

Who, God-like, grasps the triple-forks. 
And, King-like, wears the crown : 

Her open eyes desire the truth. 

The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears; 

That her fair form may stand and shine. 

Make bright our days and light our dreams. 

Turning to scorn with lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes I 




11 



162 



I'OU ASK ME, HHi: 



rOU ASK ME, WH2'. 




OU ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, 
Within this region I subsist, 
Whose spirits falter in the mist, 

And languish for the purple seas? 

It is a land that freemen till, 

That sober-suited Freedom chose. 

The land, where girt with friends or foes 

A man may speak the thing he will; 



A land of settled government, 

A land of just and old renown 
Where freedom broadens slowly down 

From precedent to precedent; 

Where faction seldom gathers head. 
But by degrees to fulness ^vrought, 
The strength of some diffusive thought 

Hath time and space to work and spread. 

Should banded unions persecute 
Opinion, and induce a time 
When single thought is civil crime, 

And individual freedom mute; 

Tho' Power should make from land to land 
The name of Britain trebly great — 
Tho' every channel of the State 

Should almost choke with golden sand — 



Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth. 
Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky, 
And I will see before I die 

The palms and temples of the South. 



LOVE THOU THV LAXD. 



163 




LOVE 7H0U THT LAND. 



I'OVE thou thy land, with love far-brought 
From out the storied Past, and used 
Within the Present, but transfused 
Thro' future time b\- power of thought. 

?%'■ i' '■'"•■ love turn'd round on fixed poles, 
Love, that cndmes not sordid ends, 
For English natures, freemen, friends. 
Thy brothers and immortal souls. 



But pamper not a hasty time, 
Nor feed with crude imaginings 
The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings, 

That every sophister can lime. 

Deliver not the tasks of might 

To weakness, neither hide the ray 
From those, not blind, who wait tor day, 

Tho' sitting girt with doubtful litrht. 



Make knowledge circle with the winds; 

But let her herald, Reverence, flv 

Befoie her to whatever sky 
Bear seed of men and growth of minds. 

Watch wiiat main-currents draw the years; 
Cut prejudice against the grain: 
But gentle words are always gain: 

Regard the weakness of fliy peers: 



Nor toil for title, place, or touch. 

Of pension, neither count on praise: 
It grows to guerdon after-days: 

Nor deal in watch-words overmuch: 



Ifti LOVE THOU THr LAXD. 

Not clinging to some ancient saw; 
Not master'd by some modern term: 
Not swift nor slow to change, but firm: 

And in its season bring the law ; 

That from Discussion's lip may fall 

With Life, that, working strongly, binds- 
Set in all lights by many minds, 

To close the interests of all. 

For Nature, also, cold and warm, 
And moist and drv devising long. 
Thro' many agents making strong, 

Matui'es the individual form. 

Meet is it changes should control 
Our being, lest we rust in ease. 
We all are chang'il by still degrees, 

All but the basis of the soul. 

So let the change which comes be free 
1 To ingroove itself with that which flies. 

And work, a joint of state, that plies 
' Its office, moved with sympathy. 

A saying, hard to shape in act; 
For all the past of Time reveals 
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals. 

Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. 

E'en now we hear with inward strife 
A motion toiling in the gloom — 
The Spirit of the years to come 

Yearning to mix himself with Life. 

A slo.w-develop'd strength awaits 
Completion in a painful school; 
Phantoms of other forms of rule. 

New Majesties of mighty States — - 

The warders of the growing hour. 
But vague in vapor, hard to mark; 



LOVE THOU THT LAND. 165 

And round them sea and air are dark 
With great contrivances of Power. 

Of many changes, aptly joined, 

Is bodied forth tiie second whole. 

Regard gradation, lest the soul 
Of Discord race the rising wind; 

A wind to pufF your idol-fires, 

And heap their ashes on the head; 

To shame the boast so often made, 
That we are wiser than our sires. 

O yet, if Nature's evil star 

Drive men in manhood, as in youth, 

To follow flying steps of Truth 
Across the brazen bridge of war — 

If New and Old, disastrous feud. 

Must ever shock, like armed foes, 

And this be true, till time shall close, 
That Principles are rain'd in blood; 

Not yet the wise of heart would cease 

To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt, 

But with his hand against the hilt. 
Would pace the troubled land, like Peace; 

Not less, Iho' dogs of Faction bay, 

Would serve his kind in deed and word. 

Certain, if knowledge bring the sword. 
That knowledge takes the sword away— 

Would love the gleam of good that broke 

From either side, nor veil his eyes: 

And if some dreadful need should rise 
Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke 

To-m.orrow yet would reap to-day, 

As we bear blossom of the dead, 

Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed 
Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 



166 



A FRAGMENT. 




A FRAGMENT.'^ 



HERE is the Giant of the Sun, which stood 
In the niidnoon, the glory of old Rhodes, 
A perfect Idol \vith profulgcnt brows 
Far-sheening down the purple seas to those 
.'Who sail'd from Mizraim underneath the star 
Named of the Dragon — and between whose limbs 
Of brassy vastness broad-blown Argosies 
Drave into haven? Yet endure unscath'd 
Of changeful cycles the great Pyramids 
Broad-based amid the fleeting sands, and slop'd 
Into the slumberous summer-noon; but ^vhere 
Mysterious Egypt, are thine obelisks 
Graven with gorgeous emblems undiscern'd? 
Thy placid Sphinxes brooding o'er the Nile? 
Thy shadowing Idols in the solitudes, 
Awful Memnonian countenances calm 
Looking athwart the burning flats, far ofl' 
Seen by the high-neck'd camel on the verge 
Journeying southward? Where are thy monuments 
Piled by the strong and sunboru Anakim 
Over their crown'd brethren Ox and Oph? 
Th)' Memnon when liis peaceful lips are kist 
With earliest rays, that from his mother's eyes 
Flow over the Arabian bay, no more 
Breathes low into the charmed ears of morn 
Clear melody flattering the crisped Nile 
By column'd Thebes. Old Memphis hath gone down: 
The Pharaohs are no more: somewhere in deatii 
They sleep with staring eyes and gilded lips, 
Arapped round witli spiced cerements in old grots 
Rock-hewn and sealed forever. 




•This and the two following^ seleclions are from the Gem, a literary annual for 1S31. 



NO MORE.— ANACREONTICS. 



167 



A'O MORE. 




Sad \o More! O sweet A^o More! 
O strange JVo Alore! 
Ij Bv a mossed brook-bank on a stone 
I smelt a wildwced flower alone: 
There was a ringing in my ears, 
Anil both my eyes gush'd out with tears. 
Surelv all pleasant things had gone before, 
Low-buried fathom deep beneath with thee. 
No More! 



--»$=-S*>:g-«s:$«- 



ANA CREONTICS. 




^^^^Hf ITH roses musky-breathed, 
t.^S'l' -^"'1 drooping daffodilly, 
GjP^'- And silver-leaved lilj', 
5> And ivy darkly-wreath'd, 
fS I wove a crown before her. 
For I love her so dearlv, 
A garland for Lenora. 
With a silken cord I bound it. 
Lenora, laughing clearly 
A light and thrilling laughter. 
About her forehead wound 
And lov'd me ever after. 





t.f?L^5 



^"'^"'^"'^■''^^V'rvr'- 



m^s^^^^ 






-*-■'•■/■,. 



mi 






THE HESPERIDES. 



171 



THE HESPERIDES. 



" Hesperus and his daui» liters three. 
That sin^ about the golden tree." 

— Comtts, 




i^^HE North-wind fall'n, in the new-starred night 
Zidonian Hanno, voyaging beyond 
The hoary promontory of Soloe 
Past Thvmiaterion, in cahned bays, 
Between the southern and the western Horn, 
Heard neither warbling of the nightingale, 
Nor melody of the Libyan lotus flute 
Blown seaward from the shore ; but from a slope 
That ran bloom-bright into the Atlantic blue. 
Beneath a highland leaning down a weight 
Of cliffs, and zon'd below with cedar shade. 
Came voices, like the voices in a dream. 
Continuous, till he reach'd the outer sea. 



The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallow'd fruit, 

Guard it well, guard it warilv. 

Singing airily. 

Standing about the charmed root. 

Round about all is mute. 

As the snow-field on the mountain-peaks. 

As the sand-field at the mountain-foot. 

Crocodiles in briny creeks 

Sleep and stir not: all is mute. 

If ye sing not, if ye make false measure. 

We shall lose eternal pleasure. 

Worth eternal want of rest. 

Laugh not loudly: watch the treasure 

Of the wisdom of the West. 

In a corner wisdom whispers. Five and three 

(Let it not be preached abroad) make an awful mystery. 

For the blossom unto threefold music bloweth; 

Evermore it is born anew; 



172 THE HESPERIDES. 



And the sap to threefold music floweth, 

From the root 

Dnuvn in tlie dark, 

Up to the fruit, 

Creeping under the fragrant bark, 

Liquid gold, honeysweet, thro' and thro'. 

Keen-eyed sisters, singing airily. 

Looking warily 

Every way. 

Guard the apple night and day, 

Lest one from the East come and take it away. 

Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, evcj .ihj ^ye^ 

Looking under silver hair with a silver eye. 

Father, twinkle not thy steadfast sight 

Kingdoms lapse, and climates change, and rnei die; 

Honor comes with mystery; 

Hoarded wisdom brings delight. 

Number, tell them over and number 

How many the mystic fruit-tree holds 

Lest the red-comb'd dragon slumber 

Rolled together in purple folds. 
Look to him, father, lest he wink, and the golden apple be stol'n away, 
For his ancient heart is drunk with overwatchings r.i'ght and day, 

Round about the hallow'd fruit-tree curl'd— 

Sing away, sing aloud evermore in the wind,, ivithout stop. 

Lest his scaled eyelid drop. 

For he is older than the world. 

If he waken, we waken, 

Rapidly levelling eager eyes. 

If he sleep, we sleep. 

Dropping the eyelid over the eyes. 

If the golden apple be taken. 

The world will be overwise. 

Five links, a golden chain, are we, 
• Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three. 

Bound about the golden tree. 

Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, ni ght and day, 

Lest the old wound of the world be healed, 

The glory unsealed. 

The golden apple stolen away, 

And the ancient secret revealed 

Look from west to east along: 



THE HESPERfDES. 173 



Father, old Himala weakens, Caucasus is bold and strong. 

Wandering waters unto wandering waters call. 

Let them clash together, foam and fall. 

Out of watchings, out of wiles, 

Comes the bliss of secret smiles. 

All things arc not told to all. 

Half-round the mantling night is drawn, 

Purple fring'd with even and dawn, 

Hesper hateth Phosphor, evening hateth morn. 

Ever}' flower and every fruit the redolent breath 

Of this warm sea-wind ripeneth, 

Arching the billow in his sleep: 

But the land-wind wandereth, 

Broken by the highland-steep, 

Two streams upon the violet deep; 

For the western sun and the western star 

And the low west-wind, breathing afar, 

The end of day and beginning of night 

Make the apple holy and bright; 

Holy and bright, round and full, bright and blest, 

ISIellovv'd in a land of rest; 

\Yatch it warily day and night; 

All good things are in the west. 

Till mid-noon the cool east light 

Is shutout by the tall hill-brow; 

But when the full-faced sunset yellowly 

Stavs on the flowering arch of the bough, 

The luscious fruitage clustereth mellowlv, 

Golden-kernell'd, golden-cor'd, 

Sunset-ripen'd above on the tree. 

The world is wasted with fire and sword, 

But the apple of gold hangs over the sea. 

Five links, a golden chain are we, 

Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three. 

Daughters three. 

Bound about 

The gnarled bole of the charmed tree. 

The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallow'd fruit, 

Guard it well, guard it warily-, 

Watch it warily. 

Singing airilv, 

Standing about the charmed root. 



174 



nOSALIXD. 



ROSALIA^D. 





Y Rosalind, my Rosalind, 

My frolic falcon with bright eyes, 
^isQ,' Whose free delight, from any height of rapid 
flight, 
Stoops at all games that wing the skies, 
^.i^ My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 

My bright-eyed, wild-ej'ed falcon, whither 
Careless both of wind and weather, 
■( Whither fly ye, what game spy ye, 
;;^ Up or down the streaming wind? 

•>^ The quick lark's closest-caroll'd strains, 

.!-• The shadow rushing up the sea, 

ii^. The lightning flash atween tlic rains. 

The sunlight driving down the lea, 
The leaping stream, the very wind 

That will not stay, upon his way, 

To stoop the cowslip to the plains, 

Is not so clear and bold and free 

As vou, mv falcon Rosalind. 

You care not for another's pains 

Because 3'ou are the soul of joy. 

Bright metal all without alloy. 

Life shoots and glances thro' 30ur veins, 
• And flashes off a thousand ways 

Thro' lips and eyes in subtle rays. 

Your hawk-eyes are keen and bright 

Keen with triumph, watching still 

To pierce me thro' with pointed light; 

But oftentimes they flash and glitter 

Like sunshine on a dancing rill, 

And your words are seeming-bitter, 

Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter, 

From excess of swift delight. 



Come down, come home, my Rosalind, 
My gay 3-oung hawk, my Rosalind: 



ROSALIXD. ' 175 



Too long you keep the upper skies; 

Too long you roam and wheel at will: 

But we must hood your random eyes 

That care not whom they kill, 

And your cheek, whose brilliant hue 

Is so sparkling fresh to view, 

Some red heath-flower in the dew, 

Touch'd with sunrise. We must bind 

And keep 3-ou fast, my Rosalind, 

Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind, 

And clip your wings, and make you love: 

When we have lured you from above. 

And that delight of frolic flight, by clay or night. 

From north to south; 

Will bind you fast in silken cords, 

And kiss away the bitter words 

From off your rosy mouth.* 



[*Perhaps the following lines may be allowed to stand as a separate poem; originally they 
made part of the te\t, where thej were manifestly superfluous. — Author's Note.] 

My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 

Bold, subtle, cai'eless Rosalind, 

Is one of those who know nostrife 

Of inward woe or outward fear; 

To whom the slope and stream of Life 

The life before, the life behind. 

In the ear, from far and near, 

Chimeth musically clear. 

My falcon-hearted Rosalind, 

FuU-sail'd before a vigorous wind, 

Is one of those ^vho cannot weep 

For other's woes, but overleap 

All the petty shocks and fears 

That trouble life in early j-ears, 

With a flash of frolic scorn 

And keen delight, that never falls 

Away from freshness, self-upborne 

With such gladness as, whenever 

The fresh-flushing springtime calls 

To the flooding waters cool, 

Young fishes, on an April morn, 

Up and down a rapid river, 



176 



TO 



Leap the little waterfalls 

That sing into the pebbled pool. 

My happy falcon, Rosalind, 

Hath daring fancies of her own. 

Fresh as the dawn before t!ie dav, 

Fresh as the early sea-smell blown 

Through vineyards from an inland bay. 

My Rosalind, m}' Rosalind, 

Because no shadow on you falls, 

Think you hearts are tennis balls 

To play with, wanton Rosalind? 



■^J=:«^"g-*:^«- 



TO 




f LL good things have not kept aloof, 
I Nor wander'd into other wars; 
^p^ I have not lackVl thy mild reproof, 

Nor golden largess of thy praise; 

But life is full of wearv da vs. 



Shake hands, mv friend, across the brink 
Of that deep grave to which I go. 

Shake hands once more: I cannot sink 
So far — far down, but I shall know 
Thy voice, antl answer from below. 

When, in the darkness over me 

The four handed mole shall scrape, 

Plant thou no duskv cvpress-tree. 

Nor wreathe tliv cap with doleful crape, 
But pledge me in the flowing grape. 



And when the sappy field and wood 

Grow green beneath the showery gray, 

And rugged barks begin to bud, 

And thro' damp holts new flush'd with May, 
Ring sudden scritches of the jay, 




'And when the sappy field and wood." 



KATE. 



177 



Then let wise Nature work her will, 
And on my clay the darnels gi'ow. 

Come only when the days are still, 
And at my headstone whisper low, 
And tell me if the woodbines blow, 

If thou art blest, my mother's smile 
Undimm'd, if bees are on the wino-; 

Then cease, my friend, a little while. 
That I may liear the throstle sing 
His bridal song, the lioast of spring. 

Sweet as the noise in parched plains 
Of bubbling wells that fret the stones 

(If any sense in me remains), 

Thy words will be; thy cheerful tones 
As welcome to my crumbling bones. 








i*::*;^!. 








13 



[j-KNOW her by her angry air, 

Her bright black eyes, her bright black hair, 
Her rapid laughters, wild and shrill, 
As laughters of the woodpecker 

From the bosom of a hill. 
'Tis Kate — she sayeth ^vhat she will: 
For Kate hath an unbridl'd tongue, 
Clear as the twanging of a harp. 

Her heart is like a throbbing star. 
Kate hath a spirit ever strung 

Like a new bow, and bright and sharp 
As edges of the cimeter. 
Whence shall she take a fitting mate? 

For Kate no common love will feci; 
My woman-soldier, gallant Kate, 
As pure and true as blades of steel. 



I7i! 



SOATNETS. 



Kate saith " the world is void of might." 
Kate saith " the men are gilded flies." 
Kate snaps her fingers at my vows; 
Kate will not hear of lovers' sighs. 
I would I were an armed knight, 
Far-fam'd for well-won enterprise, 

And wearing on my swartliy brows 
The garland of new-wreath'd emprise : 

For in a moment I would pierce 
The blackest files of clanging fight, 
And strongly strike to left and right. 
In dreaming of my lad3''s eyes. 

O! Kate loves well the bold and fierce; 
But none are bold enough for Kate, 
She cannot find a fitting mate. 



SOJVNETS. 




INE be the strength of spirit full and free. 
Like some broad river rushing down alone, 
f^With the selfsame impulse wherevvitir he was thrown 
From his loud fount upon the echoing lea: — 
Which with increasing might dotii forward flee 
By town, and tower, and hill, and cape, antl isle, 
And in the middle of the green salt sea 
Keeps his blue waters fresh for many a mile. 
Mine be the power which ever to its svvny 
Will win the wise at once, and by degrees 
May into uncongenial spirits flow ; 
Ev'n as the great gulf-stream of Florida 
Floats far away into the northern seas 
The lavish growths of southern Mexica 



SONNETS. 179 



II. 



Who can say 

Why To-day 

To-morrow will be yesterday? 

Who can tell 

Why to smell 

The violet recalls the dewy prime 

Of youth and buried time? 

The cause is nowhere found in rhyme. 



III. 
TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH. 

You did late review my lays, 

Crusty Christopher; 
You did mingle blame and praise, 

Rust}' Christopher. 
When I learnt from whom it came 
I forgave vou all the blaine. 

Musty Christopher; 
I could «o/ 1 forgive the praise 

Fusty Christopher. 

IV. 

Caress'd or chidden by the slender hand, 

And singing airy trifles this or that. 
Light Hope at Beauty's call would perch and stand, 

And run thro' every change of sharp or flat; 
And Fancy came and at her pillow sat. 
When Sleep had bound her in his rosy band. 

And chas'd away the still-recurring gnat, 
And woke her with a lay from fairy land. 
But now they live with Beauty less and less. 
For Hope is other Hope and wanders far. 

Nor cares to lisp in Love's delicious creeds; 
And Fancy watches in the wilderness. 
Poor Fancy sadder than a single star, 
That sets at twilight in a land of reeds. 



180 SOA'JVETS. 



V. 



POLAXD* 



Blow ye the trumpet, gather from afor 
The hosts to battle: be not bought and sold. 
Arise, brave Poles, the boldest of the bold ; 
Break tln"o' 3'our iron shackles — fling them far. 
O for those days of Piast, ere the Czar 
Grew to his strength among his deserts cold ; 
When even to Moscow's cupolas were rolled 
The growing murmurs of the Polish war! 
Now must your noble anger blaze out more 
Than when from SobiesUi, clan by clan. 
The Moslem myriads fell, and fled before — 
Than when Zamoysky smote the Tartar Khan ; 
Than earlier, when on the Baltic shore 
Boleslas drove the Pomeranian. 



VI. 



How long, O God, shall men be ridden down, 
And trampled under by the last and least 
Of men? The heart of Poland hath not ceas'd 
To quiver, though her sacred blood doth drown 
The fields; and out of every smouldering town 
Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be increas'd, 
Till that o'ergrown Barbarian in the East 
Transgress his ample bound to some new crown: — 
Cries to Thee, " Lord, how long shall these tilings be? 
How long shall the icj'-hearted Muscovite 
Oppress the region ? " Us, O Just and Good, 
Forgive, who smil'd when she was torn in three; 
Us, who stand now, when we should aid the right — 
A matter to be wept with tears of blood ! 

VH, 

Wan Sculptor \veepest thou to take the cast 
Of those dead lineaments that near thee lie? 
O sorrowest thou, pale Painter, for the past, 

* Written on hearing of tlie outbreak of the Polish insurrection. 



SONNETS. 181 



In j^ainting some dead friend from memory ? 
Weep on : beyond his object Love can last : 
His object liv'cs: more cause to weep have I: 
My tears, no tears of love, arc flowing fast. 

No teai's of love, but tears that Love can die. 
I pledge her not in any cheerful cujd, 

Nor care to sit beside her where she sits — 
Ah pity — hint it not in iiuman tones, 
But lireathe it into earth and close it up 

With secret death forever, in the pits 
Which some green Christmas crams with weary bones. 



VIIL * 

Me my own fate to lasting sorrow doometh : 

Thy woes are birds of passage, transitory : 

Thy spirit, circl'd with a living glory, 
In summer still a summer joy resumeth. 
Alone my hopeless melancholy gloometh. 

Like a lone cypress, through the twilight hoary. 
From an old garden, where no flower bloometh. 

One cypress on an island promontory. 
But 3'et m_v lonely spirit follows thine. 

As round the rolling earth night follows day: 
But yet thy lights on m\- horizon shine 

Into my night, when thou art far away. 
I am so dark, alas! and thou so bright 

When we two meet there's never perfect light. 



IX.* 

Check every outflash, every ruder sally 

Of thought and speech; speak low and give up wholly 
Thy spirit to mild-minded melancholy; 
This is the place. Thro' j'onder poplar valley 

Below, the blue-green river windeth slowly ; 
But in the middle of the sombre valley 
The crisped wateis whisper musically. 

And all the haunteil place is dark and holy. 
The nightingale, with long and low preamble. 

Warbled from yonder knoll of solemn larches, 

* From Friendship's OllerinEf, 1S33, 



182 SOJVNETS. 



And in and out the woodbine's flowery arches 
The summer midges wove their wanton gainbol. 

And all the white-stemm'd pine-wood slept above- 
When in this valley first I told my love. 



X. 



ALEJCAJVnBJt. 

Warrior of God, whose strong right arm debased 
The throne of Persia, when her. Satrap bled 

At Issus by the Syrian gates, or fled 
Beyond the Memmian naphtha-pits, disgraced 
Forever — thee (thy pathway sand-erased) 

Gliding with equal crowns two serpents led 

Joyful to that palm-planted fountain-fed 
Aminonian Oasis in the waste. 
There in a silent shade of laurel brown 
Apart the Chamian Oracle divine 

Shelter'd his unapproach'd mysteries: 
High things were spoken there, unhanded down; 

Onh' they saw thee from the secret shrine 
Returning with hot cheek and kindled eyes. 



XI. 



JSOJ\rAPAJfTE. 

He thought to quell the stubborn hearts of oak. 

Madman! — to chain with chains, and bind with bands 

That island queen that sways the floods and lands 

From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight woke, 

When from her wooden ■walls, lit by sure hands, 

With thunders, and with lightnings, and with smoke 

Peal after peal the British battle broke. 

Lulling the brine against the Coptic sands. 

We taught him lowlier moods, ^vhen Elsinore 

Heaid the war moan along the distant sea. 

Rocking with shatter'd spars, with sudden fires 

Flamed over: at Trafalgar yet once more 

We taught him: late he learn'd humility 

Perforce, like those whom Gideon school'd with briers. 



SOAT^TETS. 1C% 



XII, 



TO 



As when with downcast eyes we muse and brood. 

And ebb into a former Hfe, or seem 

To lapse far back in a confused dream 

To states of mystical similitude; 

If one but speaks or hems or stirs his chair, 

Ever the wonder waxeth more and more, 

So that we say, " All this hath been before. 

All this /laih been, I know not when or where." 

So, friend, when first I look'd upon your face. 

Our thought gave answer, each to each, so true — 

Opposed mirrois, each reflecting each — 

Altho' I knew not in what time or place, 

Methought that I had often met with you. 

And each had liv'd in th' other's mind and speech. 

XIII. 

The form, the form alone is eloquent! 

A nobler yearning never broke her rest 

Than but to dance and sing, be gaily drest, 
And win all eyes with all accomplishment: 
Yet in the whirling dances as we went. 
My fancy made me for a moment blest 

To find my heart so near the beauteous breast 
That once had power to rob it of content. 
A moment came the tenderness of tears. 

The phantom of a wish that once could move, 
A ghost of passion that no smiles restore — 

For ah! the slight coquette, she cannot love, 
And if you kiss'd her feet a thousand years. 

She still would take the praise, and care no more. 



XIV. 

O BRIDESMAID, ere the happy knot was tied, 
Thine eyes so wept that they could hardly see; 
Thy sister smiled and said " No tears for me! 

A happy bridesmaid makes a happy bride." 



1^4 SOXXETS. 



And then, tlie couple standing side by side, 

Love lighted down between them full of glee, 
And over his left shoulder laugh'd at thee, 
" O happy bridesmaid, make a happy bride.'' 
And all at once a pleasant truth I learn'd. 

For while the tender service made thee \veep, 
I loved thee for the tear thou couldst not hide, 
And prest thy hand, and knew the press returned, 

And thought, " My life is sick of single sleep: 
O happy bridesmaid, make a happy bride! " 



XV. 

Beauty, passing beauty! sweetest sweet! 
How canst thou let me waste my youth in sighs? 

1 only ask to sit beside thy feet. 

Thou knowest I dare not look into thine eyes. 
!Might I but kiss thy hand! I dare not fold 

M\' arms about thee — scarcely dare to speak. 
And nothing seems to me so ^v!ld and bold. 

As with one kiss to touch thy blessed cheek. 
Methinks if I should kiss thee, no control 

Within the thrilling brain could keep afloat 
The subtle spirit. Even while I spoke 

The bare word kiss hath made my inner soul 
To tremble like a lute-string, ere a note 

Hath melted in the silence that it broke. 

XA^. 

But were I lov'd, as I desire to be, 

AV'hat is there in the great sphere of the earth. 

And range of evil between death and birth. 

That I should fear, — if I Avere loy'd by thee? 

All the inner, all the outer world of pain 

Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine, 

As I have heard that, somewhere in the main, 

Fresh-water springs come up through bitter brine. 

'Twere joy, not fear, clasp'd hand-in-hand ^\^hh thee, 

To wait for death — mute — careless of all ills. 

Apart upon a mountain, through the surge 

Of some new deluge from a thousand hills 

Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge 

o o o too 

Below us, as far on as eye could see. 




See tagt jSz. 



K 

^ 




ig.«H=H^i. ^. 






m ^\m iDri^ 









$:^^ 



AND OTHER POEMS 






^n^u^^ 



PED ^. 



D. ^S*^ 



^.<::^' 
^ 



t) 



M^^<Y. 



4- 






-fl 



THE EPIC. 



1S7 



THE EPIC. 




T Francis Allen's on the Christmns-eve, — 
The game of forfeits clone — the girls all kiss'd 
Beneath the sacred bush and past away — 
The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, 
The host, and I sat round the wassail-bowl, 
Then half-way ebb'd : and there we held a talk, 
C;; How all the old honor had from Christmas gone, 
Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games 
In some odd nooks like this; till I, tired out 
With cutting eights that day upon the pond. 
Where, three jtimes slipping from the outer edge, 
I bump'd the ice into three several stars. 
Fell in a doze; and half-awake I heard 
The parson taknig^ wide and wider sweeps, 
Now harping on the church-commissioners, 
Now hawking at Geology and schism; 
Until I woke, and found him settled down 
Upon the general decay of faith 
Right thro' the world, " at home was little left, 
And none abroad : there was no anchor, none. 
To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt his hand 
On Everard's shoulder, with " I hold by him." 
" And I," quoth Everard, " by the wassail-bowl." 
" Why yes," I said, " we knew your gift that way 
At college: but another which you had — 
I mean of verse (for so we held it then,) 

What came of that?" " You know,'' said Frank, " he burnt 
His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books " — 
And then to me demanding why, " O, sir, 
He thought that nothing new w:is said, or else 
Something so said 'twas nothing — that a truth 
Looks freshest in the fashion of the day : 
God knows: he has a mint of reasons: ask. 
It pleased me well enough." " Nay, nay," said Hall, 
" Why take the style of those heroic times? 
For nature brings not back the Mastodon, 
Nor we those times; and why should any man 
Remodel models? these twelve books of mine 



188 MORTB D'ARTHUR. 

Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing- worth, 

Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt." " Bufl," 

Said Francis, " jjick'd the eleventh from this hearth, 

And have it: liccp a tiling, its use will come. 

I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes." 

He laughVl, and I, though sleepy, like a horse 

That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd my ears; 

For I remember'd Evcrard's college fame 

When we were Freshmen: then at my request 

He brought it; and the poet little urged, 

But with some prelude of disparagement. 

Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes, 

Deep-chested music, and to this result. 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 



•^^^O all day long the noise of battle roll'd 
^'"l^H Among the mountains by the winter sea; 
Until King Arthur's table, man by man. 
Had falPn in Lyonness about their Lord, 
King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep, 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights. 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross, 
That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 
" The secret of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we 
Shall never more, at adiy future time, 
Delight our souls w ith talk of knightly deeds. 
Walking about the gardens and the halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again 
To rule once more — but let what will be, be, 




MORTE D' ARTHUR. 



1S9 



I am so deeply smitten thro' the hehn 
That witliout help I cannot last till morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 
Which was mj- pride: for thou rememb'rest how 




In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 

Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 

Holding the sword — and how I rowed across 

And took it, and have worn it, like a king : 

And, wheresoexer I am sinig or told. 

In aftertime, this also shall be known: 

But now delay not: take Excalibur, 

And fling him far into the middle-mere: 

Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word." 



190 MORTE D'ARTHUR. 



To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: 
" It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." 
So saying, from the ruined shrine he stcpt 
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men. 
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down 
By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock. 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 
There diew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon. 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond studs. 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so long, 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood. 
This way and that dividing the swift mind. 
In act to throw : but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted waterflags. 
That whistled stiff and dr^' about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded king. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 
"Hast thou performed my mission which I gave? 
What is it thou hast seen or what hast heard ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
" I heard the ripple washing in the reeds. 
And the wild water lapping on the crag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale: 
" Thou hast betra3''d thy nature and thy name. 
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: 
For surer sign had follow'd, eitlner hand, 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 




"But when I look'd again, behold an arm, 
Cloth'd in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
That caught him hy the hilt, and brandish'd him.' 



MORTE D'ARTHUR. 191 



As thou art lid'and dear, and do the thing 

I bade thee, watch, and lightl}' bring me word." 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere. 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought; 
But when he saw the wonder of tiie hilt. 
How curiously and strangely chas'd, he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud : 

" And if indeed I cast the brand away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, 
Should thus be lost forever from the earth, 
Which might have pleas'd the eyes of many men. 
What good should follow this, if this were done? 
What harm, undone? deep harm to disobej'. 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king command 
An act unpi-ofitable, against himself ? 
The king is sick, and knows not what he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 
And rumors of a doubt? but were this kept, 
Stor'd in some treasure-house of mighty kings, 
Some one might show it at a joust of arms. 
Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man sjDcak in the aftertime 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honor and much fame w^ere lost." 
So spake he, clouded with his own conceit. 
And hid Excalibur the second time, 
And so strode back slow to the wounded King. 



Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily: 
« What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?" 



And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
" I heard the water lapping on the crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 
To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath: 
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 



192 MORTB D' ARTHUR. 



Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me I 

Authority forgets a dying king, 

Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 

That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art, 

For thou, the latest left of all my knights. 

In whom should meet the offices of all, 

Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt; 

Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 

Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 

Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 

And the third time may prosper, get thee hence « 

But, if thou spare to fling Excalibnr, 

I will arise and slay thee with my hands." 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, 
And leaping down the ridges lightly-, plung'd 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword. 
And strongl}' wheel'd and threw it. The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon, 
And flashing round and round, and whirled in an arch, 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur: 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Cloth'd in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the king. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: 
" Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard or seen? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
" Sir King, I clos'd mine eyelids, lest the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw. 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die. 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men. 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him; 
But when I look'd again, behold an arm, 
Cloth'd in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere." 



MORTE HARTHUR. 193 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard: 
" My end draws nigh, 'tis time that I were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive mv weiglit, 
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 

So saying, from the pavement he half rose. 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 
And would have spoken, but he found not words, 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, 
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. 

But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard. 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear "Quick, quick! 
I fear it is loo late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, 
Cloth'd with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd, 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deejj behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and right 
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based 
H!s feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 
And on a sudden, lo! the level lake, 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern. 
Beneath them; and descending they were ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately forms 
Black-stol'd, black-hooded, like a dream — by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold — and from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wink, that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 



13 



194 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. 



Then murmur'd Arthur, " Place me in the barge," 
And to the barge they came. There those three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. 
But she that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, 




And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow. 
Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white 
And colorless, and like the wither'd moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east; 



MORTE D' ARTHUR. ISS" 



And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops 

Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls — 

That made his foreliead like a rising sun 

High from the dais-throne — were parch'd \vith dust; 

Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 

Mix'd with the knightly growth that fring'd his lips. 

So like a shatter'd column lay the King; 

Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, 

From spur to plume a star of tournament, 

Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charg'd 

Before the eyes of ladies and of Kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, 
" Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? 
Wiiere shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? 
For now I see the true old times are dead. 
When every morning brought a noble chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light hath led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole round table is dissolv'd 
Which was an image of the mighty world ; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless. 
And the days darken round me, and the years, 
Among new men, strange fiices, other minds." 

And slowly answerVl Arthur from the barge; 
" The old order changeth, yielding place to new. 
And God fulfils himself in many ways. 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
May He within himself make pure! but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my foce again, 
Pray for my soul, more things are wrought bv prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and daj'. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain. 
If, knowing God, thev lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them friend? 
For so the whole round earth is evcrv ■way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 



196 MORTE D'ARTHUR. 



(For all mv miiul is clouded with a doubt) 
To the island-valley of Avilion; 
Where foils not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, 
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." 

So said he, antl the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan- 
That, fluting A wild carol ere her death, 
RufHes her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, 
And on the mere the wailing died away. 



Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long 
Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, flared and fell; 
At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound. 
And waked with silence, grunted " Good!" but we 
Sat rapt: it was the tone with which he read — 
Perhaps some modern touches here and there 
RedeemVl it from the charge of nothingness — 
Or else we lov'd the man, and priz'd his work; 
I know not: but we sitting, as I said. 
The cock crew loud; as at that time of year 
The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn: 
Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used, 
"There now — that's nothing!" drew a little back, 
And drove his heel into the smoulder'd log. 
That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue : 
And so to bed ; where yet in sleep I seem'd 
To sail with Arthur under looming shores. 
Point after point; till on to dawn, when dreams 
Begin to feel the truth and stir of day. 
To me, methought, who waited with a crowd, 
There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore 
King Arthur, like a modern gentleman 
Of stateliest port; and all the people cried, 
"Arthur is come again: he cannot die." 



THE GARDENERS DA UGHTER. 



197 



Then those that stood upon the hills behind 
Repeated— "Come again, and thrice as fair;" 
And, further inland, voices echoed—" Come 
With all good things, and war shall be no more." 
At this a hundred bells began to peal, 
That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed 
The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas mom. 



^5^iS$;;S^=<*- 



THE GARDEXER'S DAUGHTER; 



OR, THE PICTURES. 



HIS morning is the morning of the day, 
When I and Eustace from the city went 
To see the Gardener's Daughter; I and he, 
Brothers in Art; a friendship so co.nplete ' 
Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew 
The fable of the city where we dwelt. 

^ My Eustace might have sat for Hercules; 

So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. 

He, by some law that holds in love, and draws 

The greater to the lesser, long desir'd 

A certain miracle of symmetry, 
jfo A miniature of loveliness, all grace 
I^^Summ'd up and closed in littleVjuliet, she 

•r*^*V^ ^° ^'"''' °^ ^°°'' "^ "^''^ °*' sP''-it-oh, she 
^T\^ ^" '"^ '"^'^''^^' ^°'' ^°'"e three careless moons, 
■^ 1^ The summer pilot of an empty heart 

Unto the shores of nothing! Know you not 
Such touches are but embassies of love. 
To tamper with the feelings, ere he found 
Empire for hfe? but Eustace painted her. 
And said to me, she sitting with us then, 
"When WxWyou pamt like this?" and I replied, 
(My words were half in earnest, half in jest,) 
« 'Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceiv'd 
A more ideal Artist he than all, ' 




198 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; 

Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes 
Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair 
More black than ash-buds in the front of March." 
And JuHet answer'd laughing, " Go and see 
The Gardener's daughter: trust me, after that. 
You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece." 
And up we rose, and on the spur we went. 

Not wholl_v in the bus}- world, nor quite 
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. 
News from the humming city comes to it 
In sound of funeral or of marriage bells; 
And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear 
The windy clanging of the minster clock; 
Although between it and the garden lies 
A league of grass, wash'd by a slow, broad stream. 
That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar. 
Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on. 
Barge-laden, to three arches of a briden 
Crown'd with the minster towers. 

The fields between 
Are dewy-fresh, brows'd by deep-udder'd kine. 
And all about tiie large lime feathers low. 
The lime a summer home of murmurous wings. 

In that still place she, hoarded in herself. 
Grew, seldom seen : not less among us lived 
Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not heard 
Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter? Where was he 
So blunt in memory, so old at heait, 
At such a distance from his youth in grief, 
That, having seen, forgot? The common mouth 
So gross to express delight, in praise of her 
Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, 
And Beauty such a mistress of the world. 

And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, 
Would play with flying forms and images, 
Yet this is also true, that, long before 
I look'd upon her, when I heard her name 
My heart was like a prophet to my heart 
And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes 
That sought to show themselves like u'inged seeds, 
Born out of everything I heard and saw, 



OR, THE PICTURES. 199 



Fluttei'd about my senses and ni}- soul; 
And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm, 
To one that travels quickly, made the air 
Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought. 
That verg'd upon them, sweeter than the dream 
Dream'd by a happy man, when the dark East, 
Unseen, is bright'ning to his bridal morn. 

And sure this orbit of the memory folds 
Forever in itself the day we went 
To see her. All the land in flowery squares 
Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind. 
Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud 
Drew downward; but all else of Heaven was pure 
Up to the sun, and Ma}' from verge to verge, 
And May with me from head to heel. And now. 
As tho' 'twere yesterday, as tiio' it were 
The hour just flown, that morn with all its sound, 
(For those old Mays had thrice the life of these,) 
Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze. 
And, where the hedgerow cuts the pathway, stood, 
Leaning his horns into the neighbor fiekl. 
And lowing to his fellows. From the woods 
Came voices of the well-contented doves. 
The laik could scarce get out his notes for jov 
But shook his song together as he near'd 
His happy home, the ground. To left and right, 
The cuckoo told his name to all the hills; 
The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm; 
The redcap whistled; and the nightingale 
Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of day. 

And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said to me, 
"Hear how the bushes echo! by my life, 
These birds have joyful thoughts. Think vou they sing 
Like poets, from the vanity of song.' 
Or have they any sense of wh}' they sing? 
And would they praise the heavens for what thev have.'" 
And I made answer, " Were there nothing else 
For which to praise the heavens but onlj' love. 
That only love were cause enough for praise." 

Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read my thought, 
And on we went; but ere an hour had pass'd. 



200 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; 



We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North; 
Down which a well-woin pathway courted us 
To one green wicket in a privet hedge; 
This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk 
Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned; 
And one waxnii gust, full-fed with perfumo, blew 
Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. 
The garden stretches southward. In the midst 
A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade. 
The garden-glasses shone, and momently 
The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lights. 

" Eustace," I said, " this wonder keeps the house." 
He nodded, but a moment afterwards 
He cried, " Look! look!" Before he ceased I tuni'd. 
And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there, 




For up the porch thcie grew an Eastern rose. 
That, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught, 
And blown across the walk. One arm aloft — 
Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the sliape — 




"Ah, one rose, 
One rose, but one, by tliose fair fingers culi'd." 



OR, THE PICTURES. 201 



Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood. 

A single stream of all her soft brown hair 

Pour'd on one side: the shadow of the flowers 

Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering 

Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist — 

Ah! happy shade — and still went wavering down, 

But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have danced 

The greensward into greener circles, dipt. 

And mix'd with shadows of the common ground! 

But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn'd 

Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe-bloom, 

And doubled his own warmth against her lips, 

And on the bounteous wave of such a breast 

As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade. 

She stood, a siglit to make an old man young. 

So rapt, we near'd the house; but she, a Rose 
l\\ roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, 
Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn'd 
Into the world without; till close at hand, 
And almost ere I knew mine own intent. 
This murmur broke the stillness of that air 
Which brooded round about her: 

" Ah, one rose, 
One rose, but one, by those fair lingers cull'd. 
Were worth a hiindred kisses press'd on lips 
Less exquisite than thine." 

She look'd : but all 
Suflius'd with blushes — neither self-possess'd 
Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that. 
Divided in a graceful quiet — paused. 
And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound 
Her looser hair in braid, and stirred her lips 
For some sweet answer, tho' no answer came, 
Nor yet refus'd the rose, but granted it. 
And moved away, and left me, statue-like. 
In act to render thanks. 

I, that whole day, 
Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there 
Till every daisy slept, and Love's white star 
Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the dusk. 

So home we went, and all the livelong way 
With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. 
« Now," said he, « will you climb the top of Art. 



202 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; 

You cannot fail but work in hues to dim 
The Titianic Flora. Will you match 
My Juliet? you, not you, — the Master, Love, 
A more ideal Artist he than all." 

So home I went, but could not sleep for joy, 
Reading her perfect features in the gloom. 
Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er, 
And shaping faithful record of the glance 
That grac'd the giving — such a noise of life 
Swarm'd in the golden present, such a voice 
Call'd to me from the years to come, and such 
A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark. 
And all that night I heard the watchmen peal 
The sliding season : all that night I heard 
The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours. 
The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good. 
O'er the mute city stole with folded wings. 
Distilling odors on me as they went 
To greet their fairer sisters of the East. 

Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all, 
Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor storm 
Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt. 
Light pretexts drew me: sometimes a Dutch love 
For tulips; then for roses, moss or musk, 
To grace my city rooms: or fruits and cream 
Served in the weeping elm ; and more and more 
A word could bring the color to my cheek, 
A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew; 
Love trebled life within me, and with each 
The year increased. 

The daughters of the j'ear 
One after one, thro' that still garden pass'd: 
Each garlanded with her peculiar flower 
Danc'd into light, and died into the shade: 
And each in passing touch'd with son'.e new grace 
Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by day. 
Like one that never can be wholly known, 
Her beauty grew, till Autumn brought an hour 
For Eustace, when I heard liis deep " I will," 
Breath'd, like the covenant of a God, to hold 
From thence thro' all the worlds: but I rose up 
Full of his bliss, and following her dark eyes. 
Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach'd 
The wicket-gate, and found her standing there. 



OR, THE PICTURES. 203 

There sat we down upon a garden mound. 
Two mutually enfolded; Lo\e, the third, 
Between us, in the circle of his arms 
Envvound us both ; and over many a range 
Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers, 
Across a hazy glimmer of the west, 
Reveal'd their shining \vindows: from them clash'd 
The bells; we listened; with the time we play'd; 
We spoke of other things; we cours'd about 
The subject most at heart, more near and near, 
Like doves about a dove-cote, wheeling round 
The central wish, until we settled there. 

Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her, 
Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own, 
Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear, 
Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, 
A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved; 
And ill that time and place she answer'd me, 
And in the compass of three little words, 
More musical than ever came in one. 
The silver fragments of a broken voice, 
Made me most happy, faltering " I am thine." 

Shall I cease here? Is this enough to say 
That my desire, like all strongest hopes, 
By its own energy fulfill'd itself, 
Merged in completion? Would \ou learn at full 
How passion rose thro' circumstantial grades 
Beyond all grades develop 'd ? and indeed 
I had not stayed so long to tell you all, 
But while I mused came Memorj- with sad eves. 
Holding the folded annals of mv youth; 
And while I mused. Love with knit brows went by, 
And with a flying finger swept my lips. 
And spake, " Be wise: not easily forgiven 
Are those, who, setting wide the doors that bar 
The secret bridal chambers of the heart, 
Let in the day." Here, then, my words have end. 

Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells — • 
Of that which came between, more sweet than each, 
In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves 
That tremble round a nightingale — in sighs 
V\"hich perfect Joy, perplcx'd for utterance, 



204 DORA. 



Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell 
Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given, 
And vows, where there was never need of vows, 
And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap 
Hung tranc'd from all pulsation, as above 
The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale 
Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars; 
Or while the balmj' glooming, crescent-lit, 
Spread the light haze along the liver-shores, 
And in the hollows; or as once we met 
Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering rain 
Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind, 
And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep. 

But this whole hour your eyes have been intent 
On that vcil'd picture — veil'd, for what it holds 
May not be dwelt on by the common day. 
This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul; 
Make thine heart readv with thine eyes; the time 
Is come to rise the veil. 

Behold her there, 
As I beheld her ere she knew my heart. 
My first, last love; the idol of my youth. 
Tiie darling of my manhood, and, alas! 
Now the most blessed memory of mine age. 



;*S!g«S:^" 



DORA. 



ITH farmer Allan at the farm abode 
, William and Dora. William was his son, 
jjfj^i^^'^* And she his niece. He often look'd at them, 
ll^^'And often thought " I'll make them man and wife." 
*''"' Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all. 

And yearn'd towards William ; but the youth, because 
He had been always with her in the house, 
Thought not of Dora. 




DORA. 



205 



Then there came a dav 
When Allan call'd his son, and said: " My son: 
I married late, but I would wish to see 
My grandchild on my knees before I die: 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well 
To look to; thrifty too beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter: he and I 
- Had once hard words, and parted, and he died 
In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred 
His daughter Dora; take her for your wife; 
For I have wished this marriage night and day 
For many years." But William answer'd short: 
" I cannot marry Dora; by mv life. 




I will not marry Dora." Then the old man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: 
« You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus! 
But in my time a father's word was law, 
And so it shall be now for me. Look to it: 



206 DORA. 



Consider, William : take a month to think 
And let me have an answer to my wish; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, 
And never more darken ni)' doors again." 
But William answered madly ; bit his lips, 
And broke away. The more he look'd at her 
The less he liked her: and his ways were harsh; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before 
The month was out he left his father's house, 
And hired himself to work within the fields; 
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed 
A laborer's daughter, jMary Morrison. 

Then, when the bells w^ere ringing, Allan call'd 
His niece and said: " Jvly girl, I love you well: 
But if you speak with him that was my son. 
Or change a word with her he calls his wife. 
My home is ncsne of yours. My will is law." 
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, 
" It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change!" 

And days went on, and there was born a boy 
To William; then distresses came on him; 
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, 
Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. 
But Dora stored what little she could save, 
And sent it them bv stealth, nor did the}' know 
Who sent it; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest time he died. 

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : 
" I have obeyed my uncle until now, 
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me 
This evil came on William at the first. 
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, 
And for your sake, the woman that he chose, 
And for this orphan, I am come to you: 
You know there has not been for these five j'ears 
So full a harvest: let me take the boy, 
And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad 



DORA. 207 

Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, 

And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." 

And Dora took the child, and went her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
That was unsown, where many poppies grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the field 
And spied her not; for none of all his men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; 
And Dora would have risen and gone to him, 
But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

But when the morrow came, she rose and took 
The child once more, and sat upon the mound; 
And made a little wreath of all the flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round his hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
Then when the farmer jjass'd into the field 
He spied her, and he left his men at work, 
And came and said: " Where were you yesterday? 
Whose child is that! W^hat are you doing here? " 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground. 
And answer'd softly, " This is William's child! " 
« And did I not," said Allan, " did I not 
Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again, 
" Do with me as you will, but take the child 
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone! " 
And Allan said, " I see it is a trick 
Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 
I must be taught my duty, and by you! 
You knew my word was law, and yet you dared 
To slight it. Well — for I will take the boy ; 
But go you lience, and never see me inore." 
So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud 
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell 
At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands. 
And the boy's cry came to her from the field. 
More and more distant. She bow'd down her head. 
Remembering the day when first she came, 
And all the things that had been. She bow'd down 
And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd. 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 



I 



20S DORA. 



Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood 
Upon the threshold. 'hl'Axy saw the boy- 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise 
To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. 
And Dora said, " My uncle took the boy; 
But Mary, let me live and work with you: 
He says that he will never see me more." 
Then answer'd Mary, " This shall never be. 
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: 
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy. 
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight 
His mother; theretbre thou and I will go 
And I will have my boy, and bring him home; 
And I will beg of him to take thee back ; 
But if he will not take thee back again, 
Then thou and I will live within one house. 
And work for William's child, until he grows 
Of age to help us." 

So the women kiss'd 
Each other, and set out, and reached the farm. 
The door was off the latch; the\' peep'd and saw 
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, 
And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, 
Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch'd out 
And babbled for the golden seal that hung 
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. 
Then they came in: but when the boy beheld 
His mother, he cried out to come to her: 
And Allan set him down, and Mary said: 

" O Father — if you let me call y'ou so — 
I never came a-begging for m3-self. 
Or William, or this child; but now I come 
For Dora: take her back: she loves you well. 

Sir, when William died, he died at peace 
With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said. 
He could not ever rue his marrying me — 

1 had been a patient wife; but. Sir, he said 
That he was wrong to cross his father thus: 

' God bless him,' he said, ' and may he never know 
The troubles I have gone thro'! ' Then he turn'd 
His face and pass'd — unhappy that I am! 
But now, Sir, let me have mv bov, for you 
Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight 



DONA. 



209 



His father's memory; and take Dora back, 
And let all this be as it was before." 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 
By Mary. There was silence in the room; 
And all at once the old man burst in sobs: 

" I have been to blame — to blame. I have kilPd my son. 
I have kill'd him — but I lov'd him — my dear son. 
May God forgive me! — I have been to blame. 
Kiss me, my children." 




Then they clung- about 
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him manj- times. 
And all the man was broken with remorse; 
And all his love came back a hundred-fokl 
And for three houis he sobb'd o'er William's cliild, 
Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 
Within one house together; and as time 
Went forward, Mary took another mate; 
But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 



14 



2HS 



AVBLEr COURT. 



AUDLET COURT. 




G 



HE Bull, the Fleece are ciamm'd, and not a room 
For love or money. Let us picnic there 
At Audley Court." 

I spoke, while Audley feast 
Ilumm'd like a hive all round the narrow quay, 
To Francis, with a basket on his arm, 
To Francis just alighted from the boat, 
And breathing of the sea. " With all my heart," 
Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd thro' the swarm. 
And rounded by the stillness of the beach 
To where the bay runs up its latest horn — 
We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd 
The flat red granite; so by many a sweep 
Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach'd 
The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'd thro' all 
The pillar'd dusk of sounding sycamores. 
And cross'd the garden to the gardener's lodge, 
With all its casements bedded, and its walls 
And chimneys muflled in the leafy vine. 



There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid 
A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound. 
Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, 
And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly made. 
Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret laj', 
Like fossils of the rock, with golden 3'olks 
Imbedded and injellied; last, with these, 
A flask of cider from his father's vats. 
Prime, which I knew; and so we sat and eat 
And talk'd old matters over: who was dead. 
Who married, who was like to be, and how 
The races went, and who would rent the hall ; 
Then touch'd upon the game, how scarce it was 
This season; glancing thence, discuss'd the farm, 
The four-field system, and the price of grain: 
And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split. 



A UDLE r CO UR T. 211 



And came again together on the king 
With heated faces; till he laugh'd aloud; 
And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung 
To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang: 

" O, who would fight and march and countermarch. 

Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field. 
And shovell'd up into a bloody trench 
Where no one knows? but let me live my life. 

" O, who would cast and balance at a desk, 
Perch'd like a crow upon a tiiree-legg'd stool. 
Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints 
Are full of chalk ? but let me live my life. 

" Who'd serve the state? for if I carv'd my name 
Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, 
I might as well have trac'd it in the sands; 
The sea wastes all: but let me live my life. 

" O, who would love? I woo'd a woman once. 
But she was sharper than an eastern wind. 
And all my heart turn'd from her, as a thorn 
Turns from the sea: but let me live my life." 

He sang his song, and I replied with mine: 
I found it in a volume, all of songs, 
Knock'd down to me, when old Sir Robert's j^ride, 
His books — the more the pity, so I said — 
Came to the hammer here in March — and this — 
I set the words, and added names I knew. 

"Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep and dream of me, 
Sleep, Ellen, folded in th}' sister's arm, 
And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine. 

"Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm; 
Emilia, fairer than all else but thou. 
For thou art fairer than all else that is. 

" Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breast: 
Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip: 
I sfo to-ni£ht: I come to-morrow morn. 



212 



AUDLE2- COURT. 



" I go, but I return : I would I were 
The pilot of the darkness and the dream, 
Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me." 

So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, 
The farmer's son who lived across the bay, 
Mv friend; and I, that having wherewithal. 
And in the fallow leisure of my life. 
Did what I would : but ere the night we rose 
And saunter'd home beneath a moon, that, just 
In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf 
Twilights of airy silver, till we reach'd 
The limit of the> hills; and as we sank 
From rock to rock upon the glooming quay. 
The town was hush'd beneath us: lower down 
The bay was oily-calm; the harbor-buoy 
With one green sparkle ever and anon 
Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. 




WALKING TO THE MAIL. 



213 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 




( >/I\ Till ghul 1 \valk\l. How fresh the meadows look 
Above the river, and but a month ago, 

The whole hillside was redder than a fox, 
Is yon plantation where this by-way joins 
The turnpike? 

James. Yes. 

John. And when does this come by? 

yanics. The mail? \\. one o'clock. 
yohji. What is it now? 

jfamcs. A quarter to. 

jfokii. Whose house is that I see? 

Xo, not the Count}- Member's Vv'ith the vane: 
Uj3 higher with the yew-tree by it, and half 
A score of gables. 

y antes. That? Sir Edward Head's: 

But he's abroad: the place is to be sold. 
yohii. O, his. He was not broken. 
yames. No, sir, he, 

Vex'd with a morbid devil in his blood 
That veil'd the world with jaundice, hid his face 
From all men, and commercing with himself, 
He lost the sense that handles daily life — 
That keeps us all in order more or less — 
And sick of home went overseas for change. 
yohn. And whither? 

yames. Nay, who knows? he's here and there. 
But let him go.; his devil goes u'ith him, 
As well as with his tenant, Jocky Dawes. 
yohn. What's that? 

yames. You saw the man — on jSIonday, was it? — 
There by the humpback'd willow; half stands up 
And bristles; half has fallen and made a bridge; 
And there he caught the younker tickling trout — 
Caught xwjlagrantc — what's the Latin word ? — 
Delicto: but his house, for so they say, 
Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook 
The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at doors, 
And rummag'd like a rat: no servant stay'd : 
The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs, 



214 WALKING TO THE MAIL. 

And all his household stuft": and with his boy 

Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, 

Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him. " What! 

You're flitting ! " " Yes, we're flitting," saj-s the ghost, 

(For thev had pack'd the thing among the beds,) 

" O well," says he, " you flitting with us too — 

Jack, turn the horses' heads and home again." 

yohn. He left his wife behind; for so I heard. 

James. He left her, yes. I met mj- lady once: 
A woman like a bult, and harsh as crabs. 

yohn. O yet but I remember, ten years back — 
'Tis now at least ten years — and then she was — 
You could not light upon a sweeter thing: 
A body slight and round, and like a pear 
In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a foot 
Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin 
As clean and white as privet when it flowers. 

yames. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that loved 
At first like dove and dove were cat and dog. 
She was the daughter of a cottager. 
Out of her sphere. What betwixt sham? and pride, 
New things and old, himself and her, she sour'd 
To what she is: a nature never kind! 
Like men, like manners: like breeds like, they say. 
Kind nature is the best: those manners next 
That fit us like a nature second-hand; 
Which are indeed the manners of the great. 

yohn. But I had heard it was this bill that past, 
And fear of change at home, that drove him hence. 

yames. That was the last drop in his cup of gall. 
I once was near him, when his bailiff brought 
A Chartist pike. You should have seen him wince 
As from a venomous thing: he thought himself 
A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a cry 
Should break his sleep by night, and his nice eyes 
Should see the raw mechanic's bloody thumbs 
Sweat on his blazon'd chairs; but, sir, you know 
That these two parties still di\idc the world — 
Of those that want, and those that have: and still 
The same old sore breaks out from age to age 
With much the same result. Now I myseif, 
A Tory to the quick, was as a boy 
Destructive, when I had not what I would. 
I was at school — a college in the South: 
There lived a flayflint near,- we stole his fruit, 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 215 



His hens, his eggs; but there was law for us: 
We paid in person. He had a sow, sir. She, 
With meditative grunts of much content, 
La>- great with pig, wallowing in sun and mud. 
By night we dragg'd her to the college tower 
From her warm bed, and up the corkscrew stair 
Willi hand and rope we haled the groaning sovv. 
And on the leads we kept her till she pigg'd. 
Large range of prospect had the mother sovv, 
And but for daily loss of one she lov'd. 
As one by one we took them — but for this — 
As never sow was higher in this world — 
Might have been happy: but what lot is pure? 
We took them all, till she was left alone 

Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine. 

And so return'd unfarrovv'd to her sty. 
yohn. They found you out? 
James. Not they. 

John. Well— after all— 

What know we of the secret of a man? 

His nerves were wrong. What ails us, who are sound, 

That we should mimic this raw fool the world, 

Which charts us all in its course blacks or whites. 

As ruthless as a baby with a worm. 

As cruel as a school-boy ere he grows 

To Pity — more from ignorance than will. 

But put your best foot forward, or I fear 
That we shall miss the mail: and here it comes 
With five at top: as quaint a four-in-hand 
As you shall see — three piebalds and a roan. 




•216 



EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. 




ED WIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. 




f J^IE, my pleasant rambles by the lake, 

My sweet, wild, fresh three-quarters of a year, 

j/i'SiV- -^-^y °"'' Oasis in the dust and drouth 

'' "^'Of city life ! I was a sketcher then : 

See here, my doing: curves of mountain, bridge, 
Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built 
When men knew how to build, upon a rock 
With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock: 
And here, new-comers in an ancient hold, 
New-comers from the Mersey, millionaires, 
Here lived the Hills — a Tudor-chimney'd bulk 
Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers. 




" And now we left 
The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran. 
By ripply shallows of the lisping lake." 

See piige 2ig, 



EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. 21' 

O me, mv pleasant rambles by tbe lake 
With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull 
The curate; he u'as fatter than his cure. 

But Edwin Morris, he that knew the names. 
Long learn'd names of" agaric, inoss and fern. 
Who forg'd a thousand theories of the rocks. 
Who taught me how to skate, to row, to swim, 
Who read ine rhymes elaborately good, 
His own — I call'd iiim Crichton, for he seem il 
All-perfect, finishM to the finger nail. 

And once I askVl him of his early life, 
And his first passion; and he answer'd me; 
And well his words became him : was he not 
A full-cell'd honeycomb of eloquence 
Stored from all flowers? Poet-like he spoke. 

" Mv love for Nature is as old as I; 
But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that, 
And three rich sennights more, my love for her. 
Mv love for Nature and my love for her, 
Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew, 
Twin-sisters differently beautiful. 
To some full music rose and sank the sun, 
And some full music seem'd to move anil change 
With all the varied changes of the dark, 
And either twilight and the day between ; 
For daily hope fnlfilTd, to rise again 
Revolving toward fulfillment, made it sweet 
To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to breathe." 

Or this or something like to this he spoke. 
Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull, 
" I take it, God made the woman for the man. 
And for the good and increase of the world. 
A pretty face is well, and this is well. 
To have a dame indoors, that trims us up, 
And keeps us tight; but these unreal ways 
Seein but the theme of writers, and indeed 
Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuff. 
I say, God made the woman for the man, 
And for the good and inciease of the world." 



218 EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. 

"Parson," said I, "you pitch the pipe too low: 
But I have sudden touches, and can run 
My faith beyond my practice into his: 
Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill, 
I do not hear the bells upon my cap 
I scarce hear other music: yet saj' on. 
What should one giv'e to light on such a dream?" 
I ask'd him half-sardonically. 

" Give ? 
Give all thou art," he answer'd, and a light 
Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek; 
" I would have hid her needle in my heart, 
To save her little finger from a scratch 
No deeper than the skin: my ears could hear 
Her lightest breath: her least remark was worth 
The experience of the wise. I went and came; 
Her voice fled alwavs thro' the summer land: 
I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happv davs! 
The flower of each, those moments when we met, 
The crown of all, we met to part no more." 

Were not his words delicious, I a beast 
To take them as I did? but something jarr'd; 
Whether he spoke too largely; that there seem'd 
A touch of something false, some self-conceit. 
Or over-smoothness: howsoe'er it was. 
He scarcely hit my humor, and I said : 

" Friend Edwin, do not think yburself alone 
Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me, 
As in the Latin song I learnt at school, 
Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right and left? 
But \'ou can talk : yours is a kindly vein : 
I have, I think, — Heaven knows — as much within; 
Have, or should have, but for a thought or two. 
That like a purple beech among the greens 
Looks out of place: 'tis from no want in her: 
It is ni}' shyness, or my self-distrust. 
Or something of a wayward modern mind 
Dissecting passion. Time will set me right." 

So spoke I knowing not the things that were. 
Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull: 
" God made the woman for the use of man. 
And for the good and increase of the world." 



EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. 219 

And I and Edwin laugh'd; and now we pans'd 
About the windings of the marge to hear 
The 50ft wind blowing over meadowy hohiis 
And alders, garden-isles; and now we iclv. 
The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran 
B}' ripply shallows of the lisping lake, 
Delighted with the freshness and the sound. 

But, when the bracken rusted on their crags, 
My suit had vvither'd, nipt to death by him 
That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk, 
The rentroll Cupid of our rainy isles. 
'Tis true, we met; one hour I had, no moi-e: 
She sent a note, the seal an Elle voiis suit, 
The close " Your Letty, only yours;" and this 
Thrice underscor'd. The friemllv mist of morn 
Clung to the lake, I boated over, ran 
My craft aground, and heard with beating heart 
The Sweet-Gale rustle round the shelving keel: 
And out I stept, and up I crept: she moved. 
Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flowers: 
Then low and sweet I whistled thrice: and she, 
She turnVl, we closed, we kiss'd, swore faith, I breathed 
In some new planet: a silent cousin stole 
Upon us and departed: " Leave," she cried, 
" O leave me! " " Never, dearest, never: here 
I brave the worst: " and whilst we stood like fools 
Embracing, all at once a score of pugs 
And poodles yell'd within, and out they came 
Trustees and Aunts and Uncles. " What, with him! " 
'• Go " -(shrill'd the cotton-spinning chorus) ; " him ! " 
I choked. Again they shriek'd the burthen — " Him!" . 
Again with hands of wild dejection " Go! — 
Girl, get you in !" She went — and in one month 
They wedded her to sixty thousand pounds. 
To lands in Kent and messuages in York, 
And slight Sir Robert with his watery smile 
And educated whisker. But for me. 
They set an ancient creditor to work: 
It seems I broke a close with force and arms: 
There came a mystic token from the king 
To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy — 
I read, and fled by nighf, and flying turn'd : 
Her taper glimmer'd in the lake below: 
I turn'd once more, close-button'd to the storm ; 



220 



EDWIX MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. 



So left the place, left Edwin, nor have seen 
Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared to hear. 

Nor called to hear? perhaps: yet long ago 
I have pardonVl little Lettv; not indeed. 
It niay be, for her own dear sake bnt this. 
She seems a part of those fresh days to me; 
For in the dnst and drouth of London life 
She moves among niv visions of the lake 




While the prime swallow dips his wing, or then 

While the gold-lilv blows, and o\erhead 

The lisfht cloud smoulders on the suniiiicr crasr. 



ST. SIMEON STTLITES. 



2Zl 



ST. SIMEON STTLITES. 

LTHO' I be the basest of mankind, 
.p. From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin, 
^.:";4Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet 

For troops of devils, mad with blasphcmv, 
ix, , I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold 
•/^^Of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn, and sob, 
'J lT>Battering the gates of heaven with storms 
of prayer. 
Have mercv. Lord, and take awav mv sin. 

Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God, 
This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years, 
Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs. 
In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold, 
In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and cramps, 
A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud, 
Patient on this tall pillar I have borne 
Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow; 
And I had hoped that ere this period closed 
Thou wouldst have caught me up into thv rest, 
Denying not these weather-beaten limbs 
The meed of saints, the white robe anil the palm. 




O take the meaning. Lord: I do not breathe. 
Not whisper any murmur of complaint. 
Pain heap'd ten-hundred-fold to this, were still 
Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear, 
Than were those lead-like tons of sin, that crushVl 
My spirit flat before thee. 

O Lord, Lord, 
Thou knowest I bore this better at the first. 
For I was strong and hale of body then; 
And tho' my teeth, which now are dropt awa\-. 
Would chatter with the cold, and all my beard 
Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the moon, 
I drown'd the whoopings of the owl with sound 
Of pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes saw 



222 57-. S/MBOjV sttlites. 

An angel stand and watch me as I sang. 
Now am I feeble grown; my end draws nigh; 
I hope my end draws nigh: half-deaf I am, 
So that I scarce can hear the people hum 
About the column's base, and almost blind. 
And scarce can recognize the fields I know; 
And both my thighs are rotted with the dew, 
Yet cease I not to clamor and to cry. 
While my stiff spine can hold my weary head, 
Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the stone, 
Have mercy, mercy: take away my sin. 

O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul, 
Who may be saved? who is it may be saved? 
Who may be made a saint, if I fail here? 
Show me the man hath suffered more than I. 
For did not all thy martyrs die one death? 
For either they were stoned, or crucified, 
Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, or sawn 
In twain beneath the ribs; but I die here 
To-day, and whole years long, a life of death. 
Bear witness, if I could have found a way 
(And heedfully I sifted all my thought) 
More slowly-painful to subdue this home 
Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate, 
I had not stinted practice. O my God. 

For not alone this pillar-punishment, 
Not this alone I boi'c : but \vhile I lived 
In the white convent down the valley there, 
For many weeks about my loins I ^vore 
The lope that haled the buckets from the well. 
Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose; 
And spake not of it to a single soul. 
Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin, 
Betray'd mv secret penance, so that all 
My brethren marvell'd greatly. More than this 
I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest all. 

Three \vinters, that my soul might gro\v to thee, 
I lived up there on yonder mountain side. 
My right leg chain'd into the crag, I lay 
Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones; 
Inswath'd sometimes in wandering mist, and twice 



S7\ SIMEON STTLITES. 223 



Black'd with thy branding thunder, and sometimes 
Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not, 
Except the spare chance gift of tliose tliat came 
To touch my body and be heal'd, and live; 
And tliey sav then that I work'd miracles. 
Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind. 
Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, O God, 
Knowest alone whether this was or no. 
Have mercy, mercy; cover all my sin. 

Then, that I might be more alone with thee, 
Three years I lived upon a pillar, high 
Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve; 
And twice three years I crouch'd on one that rose 
Twenty by measure; last of all, I grew-. 
Twice ten long weary, weary years to this, 
That numbers forty cubits from the soil. 

I think that I have borne as much as this — 
Or else I dream — and for so long a time, 
If I may measure time by yon slow light. 
And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns — 
So much — even so. 

And yet I know not well, 
For that the evil ones come here, and say, 
"Fall down, O Simeon: thou hast suffer'd long 
For ages and for ages!" then they prate 
Of penances I cannot have gone thro', 
Perplexing me with lies; and oft I fall. 
Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies. 
That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are choked. 

But yet 
Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints 
Enjoy themselves in Heaven, and men on earth 
House in the shade of comfortable roofs. 
Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome food, 
And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls, 
I 'tween the spring and downfall of the light, 
Bown down one thousand and two hundred times, 
To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Saints; 
Or in the night, after a little sleep, 
I wake: the chill stars sparkle; I am wet 
With drenching dews, or stiff with crackling frost, 
I wear an undress'd goatskin on my back ; 



224 ST. SIMEON ST7-LITES. 

A grazing iron collar grinds my neck; 
And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross, 
And strive and wrestle with thee till I die: 
O mere}', mere}- ! wash away mj' sin. 

O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am; 
A sinful man, conceiv'd and born in sin: 
'Tis their own doing; this is none of mine; 
Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this. 
That here come those that worship me? Ha! ha! 
They think that I am somewhat. What am I? 
The silly people take me for a saint, 
And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers: 
And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness here) 
Have all in all endur'd as much, and more 
Than many just and holy men, whose names 
Are register'd and calendar'd for saints. 

Good people, j-ou do ill to kneel to me. 
What is it I can have done to merit this! 
I am a sinner viler than you all. 
It may be I have wrought some miracles. 
And cured some halt and maim'd; but what of that? 
It may be, no one, even among the saints. 
May match his pains with mine; but what of that? 
Yet do not rise: for you may look on me, 
And in your looking you may kneel to God. 
Speak! is there any of you halt or maim'd? 
I think you know I have some power with Heaven 
From my long penance: let him speak his wish. 

Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from me. 
They say that they are heal'd. Ah, hark! they shout 
"St. Simeon Stylites." Why, if so, 
God reaps a harvest in me. O my soul, 
God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be. 
Can I work miracles and not be saved? 
This is not told of any. They were saints. 
It cannot be but that I shall be saved. 
Yea, crovvn'd a saint. They shout, " Behold a saint!" 
And lower voices saint me from above. 
Courage, St. Simeon! This dull chrysalis 
Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death 
Spreads more and more and more, that God hath now 



ST. SIMEON STl'LITES. 225 

Spoiig'd and made blank of ciimeful record all 
My mortal archives. 

O my s>_)ns, my sons, 
I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname 
Stylites, among men; I, Simeon, 
The watcher on the column till the end; 
I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes; 
I, whose bald brows in silent hours become 
Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now 
From my high nest of penance here proclaim 
That Pontius and Iscariot by my side 
Showed like fair serapiis. On the coals I lay, 
A vessel full of sin: all hell beneath 
Made me boil over. Devils pluck'd my sleeve; 
Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. 
I smote them with the cross; they swarm'd again. 
In bed like monsti'ous apes they crush'd my chest: 
They flapp'd my light out as I read: I saw 
Their faces grow between me and my book : 
With colt-like whinny and with hoggish whine 
They burst my pra3er. Yet this way was left. 
And by this way I 'scaped them. Mortifj' 
Your flesh, like me, with scourges and with thorns; 
Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may be, fast 
Whole Lents, and pray. I hardh', with slow steps. 
With slow, faint steps, and much exceeding pain, 
Have scrambled past those pits of fire, that still 
Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the praise: 
God only thro' his bounty hath thought fit. 
Among the powers and princes of this world, 
To make me an example to mankind. 
Which few can reach to. Yet I do not say 
But that a time may come — yea, even now, 
Now, now, his footsteps smite the threshold stairs 
Of life — I say, that time is at the doors 
When you may worship me without reproach; 
For I will leave my relics in j-our land. 
And you may cai've a shrine about my dust. 
And burn a fragrant lamp befoie m)' bones. 
When I am gather'd to the glorious saints. 

While I spake tiien, a sting of shrewdest pain 
Ran shrivelling thro' me, and a cloud-like change. 
In passing, with a grosser film made thick 
These heavj', horny eyes. The end! the end! 
14 



226 



ST. SIMEON STTL/TES. 



Surely the end! What's here? a shape, a shape, 

A flash of light. Is that the angel there 

That holds a crown? Come, blessed brother, come. 

I know thy glittering face. I waited long; 

My brows are leady. What! deny it now? 

Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. Christ! 

'Tis gone: 'tis here again: the crown! the crown! 

So now 'tis fitted on and grows to me, 

And from it melt the dews of Paradise, 

Sweet! sweet! spikenard, and balm, and frankincense. 

Ah! let me not be fool'd, sweet saints: I trust 

That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven. 

Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God, 
Among 3'ou theie, and let him presently 
Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft. 
And climbing up unto my airj' home, 
Deliver me the blessed sacrament; 
For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, 
I prophesy that I shall die to-night, 
A quarter before twelve. 

But thou, O Lord, 
Aid all this foolish people; let them take 
Example, pattern ; lead them to thy light. 




THE TALKING OAK. 



121 



THE TALKING OAK. 




NCE more the gate behind me falls; 

Once more before my face 
I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls, 

That stand within the chace. 



'u-OOBcvond the lodge the citv lies, 
Beneath its drift of smoke ; 
And ah! \\\\\\ what delighted eves 
I turn to yonder oak. 

For when niv passion first began, 
Ere that, which in me burn'd, 

The love, that makes me thrice a man, 
Could hope itself return'd; 



To yonder oak within the field 

I spoke without restraint, 
And with a larger faith appeal'd 

Than Papist unto Saint. 

For oft I talk'd with liim apart, 
And told him of mv choice, 

Until he plagiarized a heart. 
And answer'd with a voice. 

Tho' what he whisper'd, under Heaven 
None else could understand; 

I found him garrulously given, 
A babbler in the land. 

But since I heard him make reply 

Is many a weary hour; 
'Twere well to question him, and try 

If yet he keeps the power. 



Hail, hidden to the knees in fern. 
Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, 



THE TALKING OAK. 



Whose topmost branches can discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

Say thou, whereon I carv'd her name, 

If ever maid or spouse. 
As fair as my Olivia, came 

To rest beneath thy boughs — 

" O Walter, I have shelter'd here 

Whatever maiden grace 
The good old Summers, vear by year. 

Made ripe in Sumner-chace: 

Old Summers, when the monk was fat. 
And, issuing shorn and sleek, 

Would twist his girdle tight, and pat 
The girls upon the cheek, 

" Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, 
And numbered bead and shrift, 

Bluff Harr)' broke into the spence. 
And turn'd the cowls adrift: 



" And I have seen some score of those 
Fresh faces that would thrive 

When this man-minded offset rose 
To chase the deer at five; 

" And all that from the town would stroll, 
Till that wild wind made work 

In which the gloomy brewer's soul 
Went bj- me, like a stork : 

" The slight she-slips of loyal blood, 

And others, passing praise. 
Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud 

For puritanic stays: 

" And I have shadow'd many a group 

Of beauties that vvere born 
In tea-cup times of hood and hoop. 

Or while the patch was worn; 



THE TALKING OAK. 



229 



" Ami, leg and arm with love-knots gay, 

About me leap'd and laugh'd 
The modish Cupid of the day, 

And slirill'd liis tinsel shaft. 

" I swear (and else may insects prick 

Each leaf into a gall) 
This girl, for whom your heart is sick, 

Is three times worth them all; 

"For those and theirs, by Nature's law. 

Have faded long ago; 
But in these latter springs I saw 

Your own Olivia blow, 

" From when she gamboll'd on the greens, 
A baby-germ, to when 




The maiden blossoms of her teens 
Could number five from ten. 



" I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, 
(And hear me with thine ears,) 



230 THE TALKING OAK. 



That, tho' I circle in the grain 
Five hundred rings of years — 

" Yet, since I first could cast a shade, 

Did never creature pass 
So slightly, musically made, 

So liglit upon the grass: 

" For as to fairies, that will flit 
To inake the greensward fresh, 

I hold them exquisitely knit. 
But far too spare of flesh." 

O hide thy knotted knees in fern. 

And overlook the chace; 
And from thj- topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place. 

But thou, whereon I carved her name, 
That oft has heard my vows. 

Declare when last Olivia came 
To sport beneath thy boughs. 

" O yesterday, you know, the fair 

Was holden at the town : 
Her father left his good arm-chair. 

And rode his hunter down. 

" And with him Albert came on his, 

I look'd at him with joy : 
As cowslip unto oxlip is, 

So seems she to the boy. 

" An hour had past — and, sitting straight 
Within the lovv-wheel'd chaise, 

Her mother trundlVl to the gate 
Behind the dappled grays. 

" But, as for her, she stav'd at home, 

And on the roof she went, 
And down the way 3'ou use to come 

She look'd with discontent. 



THE TALKING OAK. 231 



" She left the novel Iralf-uncut 

Upon the rosewood shelf; 
She left the new piano shut: 

She could not please herself. 

" Then ran she, gamesome as the colt, 

And livelier than a lark 
She sent her voice thro' all the holt 

Before her, and the park. 



'&5 



" A lignt wind chas'd her on the wins-. 

And in the chase grew wild, 
As close as might be would he cling 

About the darlinsf child: 



" But light as any winii that blows 

So fleetl)' did she stir, 
The flower, she touch'd on, dipt and rose, 

And turn'd to look at her. 

" And here she came, and round me play'd, 

And sang to me the whole 
Of those three stanzas that you made 

About my ' giant bole; ' 

" And in a fit of frolic mirth 

She strove to span mj' waist: 
Alas, I was so broad of girth, 

I could not be embrac'd. 

" I wish'd myself the fair young beech 

That here beside me stands. 
That round me, clasping each in each. 

She might have lock'd her hands. 

" Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as sweet 

As woodbine's fragile hold. 
Or when I feel about my feet 

The berried brion\- fold." 

O muffle round thy knees with tern, 
And shadow Sumner-chace! 



232 



THE TALKING OAK. 



Long ma}' thy topmost branch discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place! 

But tell me, did she read the name 

I carv'd with many vows 
When last \vith throbbing heart I came 

To rest beneath thy boughs? 




" O yes, she wandcr'd round and round 
These knotted knees of mine, 

And found, and kiss'd the name slio fouiu 
And sweetly murmur'd thine. 



« A teardrop trembled from its source. 
And down my surface crept. 

My sense of touch is something coarse, 
But I believe she wept. 




'*! seethe mouldcra Abbcv Walls." 

See page ss'j. 



THE TALKING OAK. 



" Then flush'd her cheek with ros)- light, 

She glanc'd across the plain; 
But not a creature was in sight : 

She kiss'd me once again. 

" Her kisses were so close and kind, 

That, trust me on my word. 
Hard wood I am, and u'rinkletl rind, 

But yet WW sap was stirr'd; 

" And even into mv inmost ring 

A pleasure 1 discern'd, 
Like those blind motions of the Spring, 

That show the year is turn'd. 

" Thrice happy he tint may caress 

The ringlet's waving balm — 
The cushions of whose touch may press 

The maiden's tender palm. 

" I, rooted here among the groves. 

But languidh" adjust 
My vapid vegetable loves 

With anthers and with dust: 

" For ah! my friend, the days were brief 

Whereof the poets talk. 
When that, \vhich breathes within the leaf, 

Could slip its bark and walk. 

" But could I, as in times foregone. 
From sprav, and branch, and stem, 

Have suck'd and gather'd into one 
The life that spreads in them, 

" She had not found me so remiss; 

But lightly issuing thro', 
I would have paid her kiss for kiss 

With usury thereto." 



O flourish high, with leafy towers, 
And overlook the lea, 



234 THE TALKING OAK. 

Pursue thy loves among the bowers, 
But leave thou mine to me. 

O flourish, hidden deep in fern, 
Old oak, I love thee well; 

A thousand thanks for what I learn 
And what remains to tell. 

" 'Tis little more; the day was warm; 

At last, tired out with play. 
She sank her head upon her arm, 

And at my feet she lay. 

" Her eyelids dropp'd their silken eaves. 

I breathed upon her eyes 
Thro' all the summer of my leaves 

A welcome mix'd with sighs. 

"I took the swarming sound of life — 
The music from the town — 

The murmurs of the drum and fife 
And lull'd them in my own. 

" Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip. 
To light her shaded eye ; 

A second flutter'd round her lip 
Like a golden butterfly; 

" A third would glimmer on her neck 
To make the necklace shine; 

Another slid, a sunny fleck. 
From head to ankle fine. 

«' Then close and tlark my arms I spread. 
And shadow'd all her rest — 

Dropt dews upon her golden head, 
An acorn in her breast. 

" But in a pet she started up, 
And pluck'd it out, and drew 

My little oakling from the cup. 
And flung him in the dew. 






5/^ 







/ -'/ 






" As when I see the woodman lift 
His axe to slav mv kin." 



THE TALKING OAK. 235 

" And yet it was a graceful gift — 

I felt a pang within 
As when I see the woodman lift 

His axe to slay my kin. 

" I shook him down because he was 

The finest on the tree. 
He lies beside thee on the grass. 

O kiss him once for me. 

" O kiss him twice and tlirice for me, 

That have no lips to kiss, 
For never j-et -was oak on lea 

Shall grow so fair as this." 

Step deeper yet in herb and fern, 

Look further thro' the chace, 
Spread upward till thy boughs discern 

The front of Sumner-place. 

This fruit of thine by Love is blest, 

That but a moment lay 
Where fairer fruit of Love may rest 

Some hajipv future day. 

I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice. 

The warmth it thence shall win 
To riper life may magnetize 

The baby-oak within. 

But thou, while kingdoms overset, 

Or lapse from hand to hand. 
Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet 

Thine acorn in the land. 

May never saw dismember thee. 

Nor wielded axe disjoint. 
That art the fairest-spoken tree 

From here to Lizard-point. 

O rock upon thy towery top 
All throats tliat gurgle sweet! 



236 THE TALKING OAK. 



All starry culmination drop 
Balm-dews to bathe thy feet! 

All grass of silky feather grow — - 
And while he sinks or swells 

The full south-breeze around thee blow 
The sound of minster bells. 

The fat earth feed thy branchy root, 

That under deeply strikes! 
The northern morning o'er thee shoot, 

High up, in silver spikes! 

Nor ever lightning char thy grain. 

But, rolling as in sleep. 
Low thunders bring the mellow rain, 

That makes thee broad and deep! 

And hear me swear a solemn oath. 

That only by thy side 
Will I to Olive plight my troth. 

And gain her for my bride. 

And when my marriage morn may fall, 

She, Dryad-like, shall wear 
Alternate leaf and acorn-ball 

In wreath about her hair. 

And I will work in prose and rhyme. 
And praise thee more in both 

Than bard has honor'd beech or lime, 
Or that Thessalian growth. 

In which the swarthy ringdoves sat. 
And mystic sentence spoke; 

And more than England honors that, 
Thy famous brother-oak. 

Wherein the younger Charles abode 
Till all the paths were dim, 

And far below the Roundhead rode, 
And humm'd a surly hymn. 



LOVE AND DUTY. 



237 



LOVE AND DUTY. 



V;, r. ?! 




^'-^ 

^ '3 F love that never found his earthly close, 
'i\\ ^^hat sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts? 
' ' Or all the same as if he had not been? 

No-*: so. Shall Error in the round of time 
\ Still father Truth? O shall the braggart-shout 
^j_ u;'^-^For some blind glimpse of freedom, work itself 

Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to law 
System and empire? Sin itself be found 
The cloudy porch oft opening on the sun? 
And onlj' he, this wonder, dead, become 
Mere highway dust! or year by year alone 
Sit brooding in the ruins of a life. 
Nightmare of youth, the spectre of himself ! 



If this were thus, if this, indeed, ^^■ere all, 
Better the narrow brain, the stony heart. 
The staring eye glaz'd o'er with sapless days, 
The long mechanic pacings to and fro. 
The set gray life, and apathetic end. 
But am r not the nobler thro' thy love? 
O three times less unwortliy! likewise thou 
Art more thro' Love, and greater than thy years. 
The sun will run his orbit, and the moon 
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring 
The drooping flower of knowledge chang'd to fruit 
Of wisdom. Wait: my faith is large in Time, 
And that which shapes it to some perfect end. 



Will some one say, then why not ill for good? 
Whj' took )'e not your pastime? To that man 
My work shall answer, since I knew the right 
And did it; for a man is not as God, 
But then most Godlike being most a man. 
— So let me think 'tis well for thee and me — 
111 fated that I am, what lot is mine 
Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow 
To feel it! For how hard it seem'd to me, 



238 LOVE AND DUTV. 



When eyes, love-languid thro' half-tears, would dwell 

One earnest, earnest moment upon muie. 

Then not to dare to see! when thj' low voice, 

Faltering, would break its syllables, to keep 

My own full-tun'd, — hold passion in a leash, 

And not leap forth and fall about thy neck, 

And (in thy bosom, (deep-desir'd relief!) 

Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that weigh'd 

Upon my brain, my senses, and my soul! 

For Love himself took part against himself 
To warn us off, and Duty lov'd of Love — 
Of this world's curse, — belov'd but hated — came 
Like Death betwixt th}' dear embrace and inine. 
And crying, "Who is this? behold thy bride," 
She push'd me from thee. 

If the sense is hard 
To alien ears, I did not speak to these — 
No, not to thee, but to myself in thee: 
Hard is mv doom and thine: thou knowest it all. 

Could Love part thus? was it not well to speak, 
To have spoken once? It could not but be well. 
The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good. 
The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill. 
And all good things from evil, brought the night 
In which we sat together and alone. 
And to the want, that hollow'd all the heart. 
Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye, 
That burn'd upon its object thro such tears 
As flow but once a life. 

The trance gave way 
To those caresses, when a hundred times 
In that last kiss, which never was the last. 
Farewell, like endless welcome, liv'd and died. 
Then follow'd counsel, comfort, and the words 
That make a man feel strong in speaking truth; 
Till now the dark was worn, and overhead 
The lights of sunset and of sunrise mix'd 
In that brief night; the summer night, that paus'd 
Among her stars to hear us; stars that hung 
Love-charm'd to listen : all the wheels of Time 
Spun round in station, but the end had come. 



LOVE AND DUTT. 



239 



O then like those, who clench their nerves to rush 
Upon their dissolution, we two rose. 
There — closing like an individual life — 
In one blind cry of passion and of pain, 
Like bitter accusation ev'n to death, 
Caught up the whole of love and utter'd it. 
And bade adieu forever. 

Live — yet live — 
Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing all 
Life needs for life is possible to \\\\\ — 
Live happy; tend thy flowers; be tended by 
My blessing! Should my Shadow cross thy thoughts 
Too sadly for their peace, remand it thou 
For calmer hours to Memory's darkest hold, 
If not to be forgotten — not at once — 
Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy dreams, 
O might it come like one that looks content, 
With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth, 
And point thee forward to a distant light. 
Or seem to lift a burthen from thy heart 
And leave thee freer, till thou wake refresh'd. 
When the low matin-chirp hath grown 
Full choir, and morning driv'n her plough of pearl 
Far furrowing into light the mounded rack. 
Beyond the fair green field and eastern sea. 




240 



THE GOLDEN TEAR. 



THE GOLDEN I'EAR. 




ELL,3ou shall have that song which Leonard wrote: 
It was last summer on a tour in Wales: 
Old James was with me : we that da)' had hcen 
Up Snowdon, and I wish'd for Leonard there, 
And found him in Llamberis: then we crost 
Between the lakes, and clamber'd half wa_y up 
The counter side; and that same song of his 
He told me; for I banter'd him, and swore 
They said he lived shut up within himself, 
A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous days. 
That, setting the hoxv much before the Aow, 
Cry, like the daughters of the horse-leech, " Give, 
Cram us ^vith ;ill," but count not me the herd! 

To which " They call me what thev will," he said: 
" But I was born too late : the fair new forms, 
That float about the threshold of an age. 
Like truths of Science ^vaiting to be caught — 
Catch me who can, ana make the catcher crown'd — 
Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. 
But if you care indeed to listen, hear 
These measured words, my work of yestermorn. 



" We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things move: 
The Sun flies forward to his brother Sun ; 
The dark Earth follows wheel'd in her ellipse; 
And human things returning on themselves 
Move onward, leading up the golden year. 

" Ah, tho' the times, when some new thought can bud. 
Are but as poets' seasons when they flower. 
Yet seas, that dailv gain upon the shore, 
Have ebb and flow conditioning their march, 
And slovs' and sure comes up the golden year. 



" When wealth no more shall rest in mounded heaps 
But smit with freer light shall slowlv melt 



THE GOLDEN rEAR. 241 



In many streams to fatten lower lands, 

And light shall spread, and man be liker man 

Thro' all tlie season of the golden year. 

" Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be wrens? 
If all the world were falcons, what of that? 
The wonder of the eagle were the less, 
But he not less the eagle. Happy days 
Roll onward, leading up the golden year. 




''Fly, happy happy sails and bear the Press; 
Fly happy with the mission of the Cross ; 
Knit land to land, and blowing havenward 
With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of toll, 
Enrich the markets of the golden year. 

" But we grow old. Ah! when shall all men's good 
Be each man's rule, and universal Peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the land, 
And like a lane of beams athwart the sea. 
Thro' all the circle of the golden j^ear?" 

Thus far he flow'd, and ended ; whereupon 
" Ah, folly!" in mimic cadence answer'd James — 
" Ah, folly! for it lies so f;ir away. 
Not in our time, nor in our children's time, 
'Tis like the second world to us that live; 
'Twere all as one to fix our hopes on Heaven 
As on this vision of the golden vear." 



16 



242 



THE GOLDEN 2'EAR. 



With that he struck his staff against the rocks 
And broke it, — James, — you know him, — old, but full 
Of force and choler, and firm upon his feet, 
And like an oaken stock in winter woods, 
O'erflourish'd with the hoary clematis : 
Then added, all in heat: 

" What stuff is this! 
Old writers push'd the happy season back, — 
The more fools they, — we forward: dreamers both: 
You inost, that in an age, when every hour 
Must sweat her sixty minutes to the death. 
Live on, God love us, as if the seedsman, rapt 
Upon the teeming harvest, should not dip 
His hand into the bag: but well I know 
That unto him who works, and feels he works. 
This same grand year is ever at the doors." 

He spoke; and, high above, I heard them blast 
The steep slate-quarry, and the great echo flap 
And bufi'et round the hills from bluff to bluff. 




UL rSSES. 



243 



UL ISSES. 






■'(.■■ 




^..-^i' T little profits that an idle king, 
^'^■ii(. By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 



t-^/^'va,, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole 
»jt >^i4''^ Unequal laws imto a savage race, 
j^^f !^ That 



hoard,' and sleep, and feed, and know 
not me. 

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink 
Life to the lees: all times I have enjov'd 



Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both. with those 

That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when 

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hvades 

Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; 

For always roaining with a hungry heart 

Much have I seen and known; cities of men 

And manners, climates, councils, governments, 

Myself not least, but honor'd of them all; 

And chunk delight of battle w^ith my peers. 

Far on the ringing plains of winch- Troy. 

I am a part of all that 1 have met; 

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 

Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades 

Forever and forever when I move. 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 

To rust unbiH"nish'd, not to shine in use! 

As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 

Little remains: hut every hour is saved 

From that eternal silence, something more, 

A bringer of new things; and vile it were 

For some three suns to store and hoard mvself, 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 

To follow knowledge, like a sinking star. 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 



This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 



244 



UL rSSBS. 



A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
(3f common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pax- 
Meet adoration to mj' household gods, 
When I am gone. He ^vorks his ^vork, I mine. 




There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners. 
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me- 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and oppos'd 
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I aie old ; 
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil ; 
Death closes all: but something ere the end, 



ULrssES. 245 



Some work of noble note, m;iy yet be done, 

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: 

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep 

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 

'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 

Push off, and sitting well in order smite 

The sounding furrows, for my purpose holds' 

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 

Of all the western stars, until I die. 

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: 

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew, 

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' 

We are not now that strength which in old days 

Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; 

One equal temper of heroic hearts. 

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 



COMB NOT, WHEN I AM DEAD. 

, OME not, when I am dead, 
^'^Hif '^° '^^'■OP "■'y foolish tears upon my grave, 
gjfe"*"^ To trample round my fallen head, 
|Jl^ And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. 

^M There let the wind swee[) and the plover cry; 
\ But thou, go by. 

Child, if it were thy error or thy crime 

I care no longer, being all unblest: 
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, 

And I desire to rest. 
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie: 
Go by, go by. 



246 



LOCKS LET HALL. 



LOCKS LET HALL. 

OMRADES, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early 

morn ; 
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the 

bugle horn. 

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews 
call, 
^ Drcaiy gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall; 

^ Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, 
S-i And the hollow ocean ridges roaring into cataracts. 



M^p^ Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade. 
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. 




Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime 
\V'ith the fiiiry tales of science, and the long result of Time; 

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed ; 
When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed: 

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see; 

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be. — 

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast; 
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest; 

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the bumish'd dove; 

In the Spring a voung man's fancy lightly tuins to thoughts of love. 



Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young. 
And her eves on all my motions with a mute observance hung. 



LOCKSLET HALL. 



247 



And I said, " My cousin Amy,speak, ;ind speak the truth to me, 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." 



^i=>- 







>*Vi, *^ 



On her paUid cheek and forehead came a color and a Hght, 
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. 

And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs- 
All the spirit deeply da\vning in the dark of hazel eves — 



Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong;" 
Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin.''" weeping, " I have loved thee 
lonff." 



Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands" 
Every moinent, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might, 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. 



Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, 
And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fullness of the Spring. 



24S 



LOCKSLEr HALL. 




Many an evening by the waters did we watcli the stately ships, 
And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. 

O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O niv Amy, mine no more! 
O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore! 

Falser than all funcv fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, 
Puppet to a father's threat, and sen-ile to a shrewish tongue! 

Is it well to wish thee happy? — having known ine — to decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine! 

Yet it shall be: thou shalt lower to his level day by day. 

What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay. 



As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown, 

And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. 



LOCKSLET HALL. 249 



He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his hoi-se. 

What is this? his eyes are heavy: think not thev are glazed with wine. 
Go to him: it is thv duty: kiss him: take his hand in thine. 

It may be thv lord is %vearv, that his brain is overwrought; 

Soothe him with thv finer fancies, touch iiim witii thv lighter thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand — 
Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with mv liand I 

Better thou and I were Uing, hidden from the heart's disgrace, 
RoU'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of vouthi 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth! 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule! 
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool! 



Well — -'tis well that I should bluster! — Hadst thou less unworthy proved- 
Would to God — fori had loved tiiee more than ever wife was loved! 



Am I mad, that I should cherish that which liears but bitter fruit? 
I will pluck it from mv bosom, tho' my heart be at the root. 

Never, tho' mv mortal summers to such length of years should come 
As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home. 

Where is comfort? in division of the records of the mind? 
Can I jjart her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind? 

I remember one that perish'd: sweetly did she speak and move: 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for tlie love she bore? 
No — she never loved me truly: love is love forevermore. 

Comfort? comfort scorn'd of devils! this is truth the poet sings. 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. 



250 



LOCKSLET HALL. 



Drug th\- memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, 
In the dead unhappy night, \vhen the rain is on the roof. 

Like a dog, he bunts in dreams, and thou art staring at tlie wall, 
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his ilrunken sleep, 
To thy widow\l marriage pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. 

Thou shalt hear the " Never, never," whisper'il by the phantom years, 
And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. 
Txirn thee, turn thee on thy pillow: get thee to thy rest again. 



TTiypr-^ -^ ■ ■ «4j 



H \ 'f ^ "'^>^M'4 




Nay, but Nature brings thee solace : for a tender voice will cry 
'Tis a purer life than thine; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. 



LOCKS LET HALL. 251 



Baby lips will laugh me down: my latest rival brings thee rest. 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. 

O the child too, clothes the father with a dearness not his due, 
Half is thine and half is his: it will be worthy of the two. 

I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part. 

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. 

"They were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself was not exempt- 
Truly, she herself had suffer'd" — Perish in thy self-contempt! 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy! wherefore should 1 care? 

1 myself must mix with action', lest I wither by despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon davs like these? 
Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys. 

Every gate is tlirong'd with suitors, all the markets overflow. 
I have but an angry fancy: what is that which I should do? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground. 

When the ranks are roll'd in vapor, and the winds are laid with sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels, 
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier page. 
Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother- Age! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, 
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field. 

And at night along the duskv highway near and nearer drawn, 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then. 
Underneath the light he Icoks at, in among the throngs of men; 



252 LOCKSLBT HALL. 



Men, my brothers, men the \vorkers, ever reaping something new: 
That which they have done but earnest of the things tliat they shall do: 

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, 

Sa%v the Vision of tlie world, and all the wonder that would be; 

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails. 
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew 
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm. 
With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm; 

Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'd 
In tiie Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. 

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, 
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. 

So I trlumph'd, ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry, 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye; 

Eye, to which all order Festers, all things here are out of joint. 
Science moves, but slowl}-, slowly, creeping on from point to point: 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher. 
Glares at one that nods and •v\'inks behind a slowlv-dying fire. 



Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs, 

And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, 
Tho' the deep heart of existence beat forever like a boy's? 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, 
And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast. 
Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. 



LOCKSLEr HALL. 253 



Hark, my nierry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn. 
They to whoin my foolish passion were a target for their scorn: 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string? 
I am sham'd thro' all my nature to have lov'd so slight a thing. 



Weakness to be wrotli with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's pain- 
Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain: 



Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine, 
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine — 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat; 

Where in ^vild Mahratta-battle fell mv father evil-starr'd ; — 
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far away. 
On from island unto island at the gateways of the dav. 

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. 

Never comes the trader, never floats a European flag. 

Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, s\vings the trailer from the crag; 

Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree — 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. 

There methinks \vould be enjoyment more than in this march of mind, 
In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. 

There the passions cramped no longer shall have scone and breathing-space; 
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run. 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun; 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks. 
Not with bhnded eyesight poring over miserable books — 



254 LOCKSLEr HALL. 



Fool, again the dream, the fanc^'! but I k}io-M my words are wild, 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. 

I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains. 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains! 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or clime? 
I, the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time — 

I, that rather held it better men should perish one by one, 

Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range. 
Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change? 

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day; 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Catha). 

Mother- Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun: 

Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the sun— 

O, I see the crescent promise of mj' spirit hath not set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow; 
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. 




GOD/VA. 



255 



GOD IV A. 




WAITED for the train at Coventry; 
I hung zL'ith grooms and porters on the bridge. 
To watch the three tall spires ; and there I shap''d 
The city^s ancient legend into this : — 

Not only we, the latest seed of Time, 
New men, that in the flying of a wheel 

Cry down the past, not only we, that prate 

Of lights and wrongs, have lov'd the people well. 

And loath'd to see them overtax'd; but she 

Did more, and imderwent, and overcame. 

The woman of a thousand summers back, 

Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who rul'd 

In Coventry: for when he laid a tax 

Upon his town, and all the mothers brought 

Their children, clamoring, " If we pay, we starve! " 

She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode 

About the hall, among his dogs, alone, 

His beard a foot before him, and his hair 

A yard behind. She told him of their tears, 

And pray'd him, " If they pay this tax, they starve." 

Whereat he stared, replying, half-amaz'd, 

" You would not let your little finger ache 

For such as these P " ~^<- But I would die," said she. 

He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by Paul ; 

Then fillipp'd at the diamond in her ear; 

" O ay, ay, ay, you talk?"—" Alas! " she said 

'' But prove me what it is I would not do." 

And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand, 

" He answer'd, " Ride you naked thro' the town. 

And I repeal it;" and nodding, as in scorn. 

He parted, with great strides among his dogs. 



So left alone, the passions of her mind, 
As winds from all the compass shift and blow, 
Made war upon each other for an hour. 
Till pity won. She sent a herald forth, 
And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, all 



256. 



GODIVA. 



The hard condition ; but that she would loose 
The people: therefore, as they lov'd her well, 
From then till noon no foot should pace the street. 
No eye look down, she passing; but that all 
Should keep within, door shut, and window barr'd. 




Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there 
Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her belt, 
The grim Earl's gift; but ever at a breath 
She linger'd, looking like a summer moon 
Half-dipt in cloud: anon she shook her head. 
And shower'd the rippled ringlets to her knee; 
Unclad herself in haste; adown the stair 
Stole on, and like a creeping sunbeam, slid 
From pillar unto pillar, until she reach'd 
The gatewa)-; there she found her palfrey trapt 
In purple blazon'd with armorial gold. 



GODIVA. 25^ 



Then she rode forth, cloth'd on with chastity: 
The deep air listen'd round her as she rode, 
And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear. 
The little wide-mouth'd heads upon the spout 
Had cunning eyes to see: the barking cur 
Made her cheek flame: her palfrey's footfall shot 
Light horrors thro' her pulses: the blind walls 
Were full of chinks and holes; and overhead 
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared : but she 
Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she saw 
The white-flower'd elder-thicket from the field 
Gleam thro' the Gothic archways in the wall. 

Then she rode back, clothetl on with chastity : 
And one low churl, compact of thankless earth. 
The fatal by-word of all years to come. 
Boring a little auger hole in fear, 
Peep'd — but his eyes, before they had their will, 
Were shrivell'd into darknes;-- in his head, 
And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait 
On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense misused; 
And she, that knew not, pass'd : and all at once. 
With twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless noon 
Was clash'd and hammer'd from a hundred towers. 
One after one : but even then she gain'd 
Her bower; whence reissuing, robed and crown'd. 
To meet her lord, she took the tax away. 
And built herself an everlasting name. 




258 



THE TWO VOICES. 



THE TWO VOICES. 




STILL small voice spake unto me, 
" Thou art so full of misery, 
Were it not better not to be ? " 



^ , Then to the still small voice I said: 
s^^^^" Let me not cast in endless shade 
"^^*^What is so wonderfully made." 



which the voice did urge reply : 
o-day I saw the dragon-fly 
ome from the wells where he did lie. 

An inner impulse rent the veil 
his old husk: from head to tail 
Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. 



"He dried his wings: like gauze they grew 
Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew 
A living flash of light he flew." 

I said, " When first the world began, 
Young Nature tliro' five cycles ran, 
And in the sixth she moulded man. 

" She gave him inind, the lordliest 
Proportion, and, above the rest. 
Dominion in the head and breast." 

Thereto the silent voice replied: 

" Self-blinded are you by your pride: 

Look up thro' night : the world is wide. 

" This truth within thy mind rehearse. 

That in a boundless universe 

Is boundless better, boundless worse. 



I 



THE TWO VOICES. 259 



" Think you this mould of hopes and fears 
Could find no stateher than hi? peers 
In yonder hundred milHon spheres? " 

It spake, moreover, in my mind, 

" Tho' thou vvert scattered to the wind, 

Yet is there plenty of the kind." 

Then did my response clearer fell: 
"No compound of this earthly ball 
Is like another, all in all." 

To which he answer'd scoffingly: 
" Good soul! suppose I grant it thee 
Who'll weep for thy deficiency? 

" Or will one beam be less intense. 

When thy peculiar difference 

Is cancell'd in the world of sense? " 

I would have said, " Thou canst not know." 
But my full heart, that work'd below, 
Rain'd thro' my sight its overflow. 

Again the voice spake unto me: 
" Thou art so steep'd in misery, 
Surely 'twere better not to be. 

" Thine anguish will not let thee sleep. 

Nor any train of reason keep: 

Thou canst not think, but thou wilt weep." 

I said, " The years with change advance: 
If I make dark my countenance, 
I shut my life from happier chance. 

" Some turn this sickness yet might take, 
Ev'n yet." But he: " What drug can make 
A wither'd palsy cease to shake? " 

I wept, " The' I should die, I know 
That all about the thorn will blow 
In tufts of rosy-tinted snow; 



260 THE TWO VOICES. 



" And men, thro' novel spheres of thought 
Still moving after truth long sought, 
Will learn new things when I am not." 

" Yet," said the secret voice, " some time. 
Sooner or later, will gray prime 
Make thy grass hoar with earlv rime. 

" Not less swift souls that yearn for light. 

Rapt after heaven's starry flight. 

Would sweep the tracts of dav and night. 

" Not less the bee would range her cells, 
The furzy prickle fire the dells. 
The foxglove cluster dappled bells." 

I said that " all the years invent; 
Each month is various to present 
The world with some development. 

" Were this not well, to bide inine hour, 
Tho' watching from a ruin'd tower 
How grows the dav of human power?' 

" The highest-mounted mind," he said, 
" Still sees the sacred morning spread 
The silent summit overhead. 

'• Will thirtv seasons render plain 
Those lonely lights that still remain, 
Just breaking over land and main? 

'> Or make that morn, from his cold crown 
And crystal silence creeping down. 
Flood with full daylight glebe and town? 

" Forerun thy peers, thy time, and kt 

Thy feel, millenniuins hence, be set 

In midst of knowledge, dream'd not yet. 

" Thou hast not gained a real height. 
Nor art thou nearer to the light, 
Because the scale is infinite. 



THE TWO VOICES. 261 



"'Twere better not to breathe or speak, 
Than cry for strength, remaining weak, 
And seem to find, but still to seek. 

" Moreover, but to seem to find 

Asks \vhat thou lackest, thought resign'd, 

A health}' frame, a quiet mind." 

I said, " When I am gone away, 
' He dared not tarry,' men will say, 
Doing dishonor to mv clav." 

" This is more vile," he made reply, 

" To breathe and loathe, to live and sigh. 

Than once from dread of pain to die, 

" Sick art thou — a divided will 
Still heaping on the fear of ill 
The fear of men, a coward still. 

" Do men love thee? Art thou so bound 
To men, that how thy name may sound 
Will vex thee Iving underground? 

" The memory of the wither'd leaf 
In endless time is scarce more brief 
Than of the garner'd Autumn-sheaf. 

" Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust; 
The right ear, that is fiU'd with dust. 
Hears little of the false or just." 

" Hard task, to pluck resolve," I cried, 
" Froin emptiness and the waste wide 
Of that abyss, or scornful pride! 

" Nay — rather )-et that I could raise 
One hope that warm'd me in the days 
While still I yearn'd for human praise. 

" When, wide in soul and bold of tongue, 
Among the tents I paus'd and sung 
The distant battle flash'd and rung. 



262 THE TWO VOICES. 



" I sung the joyful Pa;aii clear, 
And, sitting, burnish'd without fear 
The brand, the buckler, and the spear — 

" Waiting to strive a happy strife, 
To war with falsehood to the knife, 
And not to lose the good of life — 

" Some hidden principle to move. 

To put together, part and prove. 

And mete the bounds of hate and love — 

" As far as might be, to carve out 
Free space for every human doubt. 
That the whole mind might orb about — 

" To search thro' all I felt or saw. 
The springs of life, the depths of awe, 
And reach the law within the law: 

" At least, not rotting like a weed, 
But, having sown some generous seed. 
Fruitful of further thought and deed, 

"To pass, when Life her light withdraws, 
Not void of righteous self-applause, 
Nor in a merely seltrsh cause — 

" In some good cause, not in mine own, 
To perish, wept for, honor'd, known. 
And like a warrior overthrown ; 

" Whose ej'es are dim with glorious tears, 
When, soil'd with noble dust, he hears 
His country's war-song thrill his ears: 

" Then d3'ing of a mortal stroke, 
What time the foeman's line is broke. 
And all the war is roU'd in smoke." 

" Yea!" said the voice, " thy dream was good. 
While thou abodest in the bud. 
It was the stirring of the blood. 



THE TWO VOICES. 9(53 



" If Nature put not forth her power 
About the opening of the flower, 
Who is it that could live an hour? 

« Then comes the check, the change, the fall, 
Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. 
There is one remed_v for all. 

" Yet hadst thou, thro' enduring pain, 
Link'd month to month with such a chain 
Of knitted purport, all were vain. 

" Thou hadst not between death and birth 
Dissolv'd the riddle of the earth. 
So were thy labor little worth. 

" That men with knowledge merely play'd, 
I told thee — hardly nigher made, 
Tho' scaling slow from grade to grade: 

"Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind, 
Named man, may hope some truth to find, 
That bears relation to the mind. 

" For every worm beneath the moon 
Draws different threads, and late and soon 
Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. 

"Cry, faint not: either Truth is born 
Beyond the polar gleam forlorn. 
Or in the gateways of the morn. 

" Cry, faint not, climb: the summits slope 
Beyond the furthest flights of hope, 
Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope. 

" Sometimes a little corner shines, 

As over rainy mist inclines 

A gleaming crag with belts of pines. 

" I will go forward, sayest thou, 
I shall not foil to find her now. 
Look up, the fold is on her brow. 



264 THE TWO VOICES. 



" If straight thy track, or if oblique, 

Thou knowest not. Shadows thou dost strike, 

Embracing cloud, Ixion-like; 

" And owning but a little more 
Than beasts, abidest lame and poor, 
Calling thyself a little lower 

"Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl! 
Why inch by inch to darkness crawl? 
There is one remedy for all." 

" O dull, one-sided voice," said I, 
" Wilt thou make everything a lie, 
To flatter me that I may die.' 

" I know that age to age succeeds. 
Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, 
A dust of systems and of creeds. 

" I cannot hide that some have striven, 
Achieving calm, to whom was given 
The joy that mixes man with Heaven: 

" Who, rowing hard against the stream, 
Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, 
And did not dream it was a dream ; 

" But heard, by secret transport led, 
Ev'n in the charnels of the dead, 
The murmur of the fountain-head — 

" Which did accomplish their desire, 
Bore and forebore, and did not tire, 
Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. 

" He heeded not reviling tones. 

Nor sold his heart to idle moans, 

Tho' curs'd and scorn'd, and bruis'd with stones: 

" But looking upward, full of grace, 
He pray'd, and from a happy place 
God's glory smote him on the face." 



THE TWO VOICES. 265 



The sullen answer slid betwixt : 

" Not that the grounds of hope were fix'd, 

The elements were kindlier mix'd." 

I said, « I toil beneath the curse, 
But, knowing not the universe, 
I fear to slide from bad to worse. 

" And that, in seeking to undo 
One riddle, and to find the true, 
I knit a hundred others new : 

" Or that this anguish fleeting hence, 
Unmanacled from bonds of sense. 
Be fix'd and froz'n to permanence: 

" For I go, weak from suffering here: 
Naked I go, and void of cheer: 
What is it that I may not fear?" 

" Consider well," the voice replied, 

" His face, that two hours since hath died: 

Wilt thou find passion, pain, or pride? 

" Will he obey when one commands? 
Or answer should one press his hands? 
He answers not, nor understands. 

" His palms are folded on his breast: 
There is no other thing express'd 
But long disquiet merg'd in rest. 

"His lips are very mild and meek: 
Tho' one should smite him on the cheek, 
Or on the mouth, he will not speak. 

" His little daughter, whose sweet face 
He kiss'il, taking his last embrace. 
Becomes dishonor to her race — 

" His sons grow up that bear his name. 
Some grow to honor, some to shame, — 
But he is chill to praise or blame. 



266 THE TWO VOICES. 



"He ^vill not hear the noith-wiiid rave, 
Nor, moauiii<j, household sheher crave 
From winter rains that beat his grave. 

" High up the vapors fold and swim : 
About him broods the twilight dim : 
Tlie place he knew forgetteth him." 

" If all be dark, vague voice," I said, 

" These things are wrapped in doubt and dread, 

Nor canst thou show the dead are dead. 

" The sap dries up; the plant declines. 

A deeper tale my heart divines. 

Know I not Death? the outward signs? 

" I found him when my years were few; 
A shadow on the graves I knew, 
And darkness in the village yew. 

" From grave to grave the shadow crept: 
In her still place the morning wept: 
Touch'd b}' his feet the daisy slept. 

" The simple senses crown'd his head : 
'Omega! thou art Lord,' they said, 
' We find no motion in the dead.' 

" Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, 
Should that plain fact, as taught by these. 
Not make him sure that he shall cease? 

" Who forged that other influence, 

That heat of inward evidence, 

By which he doubts against the sense? 

" He owns the fatal gift of eyes, 
That read his spirit blindly wise, 
Not simple as a thing that dies. 

" Here sits he shaping wings to flv: 
His heart forebodes a mystery : 
He names the name Eternity. 



THE TWO VOICES. 267 



" That t^pe of Perlect in his mind 
In Nature can he nowhere find. 
He sows himself on everj' wind. 

"He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, 
And thro' thick veils to apprehend 
A labor working to an end. 

" The end and the beginning vex 

His reason; many things perplex, 

With motions, checks, and countei'-checks. 

" He knows a baseness in his blood 

At such strange war with something good, 

He maj' not do the thing he would. 

"Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn. 
Vast images in glimmering dawn, 
Half-shown, are broken and withdrawn. 

"Ah! sure within him and without. 
Could his dark wisdom find it out. 
There must be answer to his doubt. 

" But thou canst answer not again. 
With thine own weapon art thou slain. 
Or thou wilt answer but in vain. 

" The doubt would rest, I dare not solve 
In the same circle we revolve. 
Assurance only breeds resolve." 

As when a billow, blown against. 

Falls back, the voice with which I fenc'd 

A little ceas'd, but recommenc'd: 

" Where wert thou when thy father play'd 
In his free field, and pastime made, 
A merry hoy in sun and shade? 

" A merry boy they call'd him then. 
He sat upon the knees of men 
In (lavs that never come again. 



206 THE TWO VOICES. 



" Before the little ducts began 

To feed thy bones with lime, and ran 

Their course, till thou wert also man: 

" Who took a wife, who rear'd his race, 
Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face, 
Whose troubles number with his days: 

" A life of nothings, nothing-worth, 
From that first nothing ere his birth 
To that last nothing under earth ! " 

" These words," I said, " are like the lest, 
No certain clearness, but at best 
A vague suspicion of the breast : 

" But if I grant, thou might'st defend 
The thesis which thy words intend — 
That to begin implies to end; 

" Yet how should I for certain hold, 
Because my memory is so cold. 
That I first was in human mould? 

" I cannot make this matter plain. 
But I ^vould shoot, howe'erin vain, 
A random arrow from the brain. 

" It may be that no life is found. 
Which only to one engine bound 
Falls off, but cycles always round. 

"As old mvthologies relate. 

Some draught of Lethe might await 

The slipping thro' from state to state. 

" As here we find in trances, men 
Forget the dream that happens then, 
Until thev fall in trance again. 

" So tnight we, if our state were such 

As one before, remember much. 

For those two likes might meet and touch. 



THE TWO VOICES. 269 



" But, if I lapsed from nobler place, 
Some legend of a fallen race 
Alone might hint of my disgrace; 

" Some vague emotion of delight 

In gazing up an Alpine height. 

Some yearning towards the lamps of night. 

" Or if thro' lower lives I came 

Tho' all experience past became 
Consolidate in mind and frame — 

" I might forget my weaker lot; 
For is not our first year foro-ot? 
The haunts of memory eclw not. 

" And men, whose reason long was blind, 
From cells of madness unconfined, 
Oft lose whole years of darker mind. 

" Much more, if first I floated free. 
As naked essence, must I be. 
Incompetent of memory: 

" For memory dealing but with time, 
And he with matter, could she climb 
Beyond her own material prime? 

" Moreover, something is or seems. 
That touches me with mystic gleams, 
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — 

" Of something felt, like something iiere: 
Of something done, I know not where; 
Such as no language may declare." 

The still voice iaugh'd. " I talk," said he, 
'• Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee 
Thy pain is a reality." 

" But thou," said I, "hast miss'd thy mark. 
Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark, 
^y making all the horizon dark. 



I 



270 THE TWO VOICES. 



" Wh}' not set forth, if I should do 
This rashness, that which might ensue 
With this old soul in organs new? 

" Whatever crazy sorrow saith. 

No life that breathes with human breath 

Has ever truly long'd for death. 

"'Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, 

life, not death, for which we pant; 
Wore life, and fuller, that I want." 

1 ceased, and sat as one forlorn. 
Then said the voice, in quiet scorn : 
" Behold, it is the Sabbath morn." 

And I arose, and I released 

The casement, and the light increased 

With freshness in the dawning east. 

Like soften'd airs that blowing steal, 
When meres begin to uncongeal. 
The sweet church bells began to peal. 

On to God's house the people prest: 
Passing the place where each must rest, 
Each enter'd like a welcome guest. 

One walk'd between his wife and child. 
With measur'd footfall firm and mild. 
And now and then he gravely smiled. 

The prudent partner of his blood 
Lean'd on him, faithful, gentle, good. 
Wearing the rose of womanhood. 

And in their double love secure, 
The little maiden walk'd demure. 
Pacing with downward eyelids pure. 

These three made unity so sweet. 
My frozen heart began to beat, 
RemeiTibering its ancient heat. 



THE TWO VOICES. 271 



I blest them, and they waiidei'd on; 
I spoke, but answer came there none: 
The dull and bitter voice was gone. 

A second voice was at my ear, 

A little whisper silver-clear, 

A murmur, " Be of better ciieer." 

As from some blisstul neighborhood, 

A notice faintly understootl, 

" I see the end, and know the good." 

A little hint to solace woe, 

A hint, a whisper breathing low, 

" I may not speak of what I know." 

Like an yEolian harp that wakes 

No certain air, but overtakes 

Far thought with music that it makes: 

Such seem'd the whisper at my side : 

" What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?" I cried. 

" A hidden hope," the voice replied : 

So heavenly-toned, that in that hour 
From out my sullen heart a power 
Broke, like the rainbow from the shower 

To feel, altho' no tongue can prove. 
That every cloud, that spreads above 
And veileth love, itself is love. 

And forth into the fields I went. 
And Nature's living motion lent 
The pulse of hope to discontent. 

I wonder'd at the bounteous hours. 

The slow result of winter-showers: 

You scarce could see the grass for flowers. 

I wonder'd, while I paced along: 

The woods were fill'd so full with song, 

There seem'd no room for sense of wrong. 



272 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



So variouslv seemed all things wrought, 
I marveU'cl how the mind was brought 
To anchor by one gloomy thought; 

And wherefore rather I made choice 
To commune with that barren voice, 
Than him that said, "Rejoice! rejoice!" 



■•«5:s«-SK*«=S<— • 



THE DAT-DREAM. 



PROLOGUE. 




LADY FLORA, let me speak: 
A pleasant hour has past away 
While, dreaming on your damask cheek, 
The dewy sister-eyelids lay. 
As bv the lattice you reclin'd, 

I went thro' many wayward moods 
To see you dreaming — and, behind, 
A summer crisp with shining woods. 
And I too dream'd, until at last 

Across my fancy, brooding warm. 
The reflex of a legend past. 

And loosely settl'd into form. 
And would you have the thought I had. 

And see the vision that I saw, 
Then take the broidery-frame, and add 

A crimson to the quaint Macaw, 
And I will tell it. Turn 3'our face, 

Nor look with that too-earnest eye — 
The rhymes are dazzled from their place. 
And order'd words asunder fly. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



273 



THE SLEEPING PALACE. 




HE varying year with blade and sheaf 

Clotiies and reclothcs the happv plains: 
Here rests the sap within the leaf", 

Here stays the blood along the veins. 
Faint shadows, vapors lightly curl'd, 

Faint murmurs from the meadows come, 
Like hints and echoes of the world 

To spirits folded in the womb. 



Soft lustre bathes the range of urns 

On every slanting terrace-lawn. 
The fountain to his place returns. 

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. 
Here droops the banner on the tower, 

On the hall-hearths the festal fires. 
The peacock in his laurel bower. 

The parrot in his gilded wires. 

Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs: 

In the.se, in those the life is stav'd, 
The mantles from the golden pegs 

Droop sleepily : no sound is m.ade, 
Not even of a gnat that sings. 

Wore like a pictinx seemeth all 
Than those old portraits of oid kings. 

That ^vatch the sleepers from the \vall. 

Here sits the butler with a flask 

Between his knees half-drain'd ; and there 
The wrinkled steward at his task. 

The maid-of-honor blooming fair: 
The page has caught her hand in his: 

Her lips are sever'd as to speak: 
His own are pouted to a kiss: 

The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. 



18 



Till all the hundred summers pass, 

The beams, that through the oriel shine, 



274 THE DAY-DREAM. 



Make prisms in every carven glass, 
And beaker brimm'd with noble wine. 

Each baron at the banquet sleeps, 
Grave faces gather'd in a ring. 

His state the king reposing keeps. 
He must have been a jovial king. 

All round a hedge upshoots, and shows 

At distance like a little wood ; 
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes, 

And grapes with bunches red as blood; 
All creeping plants, a wall of green 

Close-matted, bur and brake and brier. 
And glimpsing over these, just seen, 

High up the topmost palace-spire. 

When will the hundred summers die. 

And thought and time be born again. 
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, 

Bring truth that sways the soul of men? 
Here all things in their place remain. 

As all were order'd, ages since. 
Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, 

And bring the fated fairy Prince. 



THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 



^EAR after year unto her feet, 

.^ She lying on her couch alone, 

" ^ Across the purpl'd coverlet. 

The maiden's jet-black hair has grown, 
On either side Jier tranced form 

Forth streaming from a braid of pearl; 
The slumbrous light is rich and warm, 
And moves not on the rounded curl. 



The silk star-broider'd coverlid 

Unto her limbs itself doth mould 
Languidly ever; and, amid 




THE DA r-DREAM. 275 



Her full black ringlets downward roll'd, 
Glows forth each softly-shadowed arm 

With bracelets of the diamond bright: 
Her constant beauty doth inform 

Stillness with love, and day with light. 

She sleeps: her breathings are not heard 

In palace chambers far apart. 
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd 

That lie upon her charmed heart. 
She sleeps: on either hand upswells . 

The gold-fring'd pillow lightly prest: 
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 

A perfect form in perfect rest. 




THE ARRIVAL. 



LL precious things, discover'd late, 
[ To those that seek them issue forth; 
For love in sequel works with fate, 

And draws the veil from hidden worth. 

He travels far from other skies 

His mantle glitters on the rocks 

A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes, 
And lighter-footed than the fox. 

The bodies and the bones of those 

That strove in other days to pass. 
Are withered in the thorny close. 

Or scattered bhmci-iing on the grass. 
He gazes on the silent dead, 

" They perish'd in their daring deeds." 
This proverb flashes thro' his head, 

" The many fail: the one succeeds." 

He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks: 
He breaks the hedge: he enters there: 

The color flies into his cheeks: 

He trusts to light on something fair; 



276 



THE DAT-DREAM. 



For all his life the charm did talk 
About his path, and hover near 

With words of promise in his walk, 
And ^vhisper'd voices at his ear. 

More close and close his footsteps wind ; 

The Magic Music in his heart 
Beats quick and quicker, till he find 

The quiet chainber far apart. 
His spirit flutters like a lark, 

•He stoops — to kiss lier — on his kntc. 
" Love, if thy tresses be so dark. 

How dark those hidden eves must be!" 



THE REVIV.VL. 



^'i' TOUCH, a kiss! the charm was snapt; 
There rose a noise of strikuig clocks, 
And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, 

And barking dogs, and crowing cocks; 
A fuller light illumin'd all, 

A breeze thro' all the garden swept, 
A sudden hubbub shook the hall, 
And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 




The hedge broke in, the banner blew. 

The butler drank, the steward scrawl'd. 
The fire shot up, the martin flew, 

The parrot scream'd, the peacock squall'd, 
The maid and page renew VI their strife. 

The palace bang'd, and buzz'd, and clackt 
And all the long-pent stream of life 

Dash'd downward in a cataract. 



And last with these the king awoke. 
And in his chair himself uprear'd. 
And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and spoke. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



!77 




" Bv holy rood, a royal beard ! 
How say you? we have slept, my lords. 

Mv beard has grown into my lap." 
The barons swore, with inany words, 

'Twas but an after-dinner's nap. 



" Pardy," return'd the king, " but still 

My joints are soinething stiff or so. 
My lord, and shall we pass the hill 

I inention'd half an hour ago?" 
The chancellor, sedate and vain. 

In courteous words return'd reply; 
But dallied with his golden chain, 

And, smiling, put the question by. 



278 



THE DA r-DREAM. 



THE DEPARTURE. 




ND on her lover's arm she leant, 
And roinid her waist she felt it fold, 
|f-S"^^And far across the hills they went 

In that new world which is the old: 
Across tlie hills, and far awaj' 
Beyond their utmost purple rini. 
And deep into the dying day 

The happy princess follow'd him. 



" I'd sleep another hundred years, 

O love, for such another kiss;" 
" O wake forever, love," she hears, 

" O love, 't was such as this and this." 
And o'er them many a sliding star, 

And many a merry wind was borne. 
And, stream'd thro' many a golden bar, 

The twilight melted into morn. 

'• O eyes long laid in happy sleep! " 

" O happy sleep, that lightly fled! " 
" O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep! " 

" O love, thy kiss would wake the dead ! " 
And o'er them many a flowing range 

Of vapor buoy'd the crescent-bark. 
And, rapt thro' many a rosy change. 

The twilight died into the dark. 

" A hundred summers! can it be.' 

And whither goest thou, tell me where?" 
" O seek my father's court with me. 

For there are greater wonders there." 
And o'er the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
Bevond the night, across the day, 

Thro' all the world she follow'd him. 



1 



THE DAr~DREAM. 279 



MORAL. 



"i^S^iO, Lady Flora, take my \a\ , 
\ \j^~ And if you find no moral there, 
•allfe''''' Qo^ IqoI^ j„ .^,^y glass and say, 
What moral is in being- fair. 
O to what uses shall we put 

The vvildweed-flower that simply blows? 
And is there any moral shut 
Within the bosom of the rose? 



But any man that walks the mead. 

In bud or blade, or bloom, may find, 
According as his humors lead, 

A meaning suited to his mind. 
And liberal applications lie 

In Art like Nature, dearest friend; 
So 't were to cramp its use, if I 

Should hook it to some useful end. 



L'ENVOI. 



8f^/*!l«^JU shake your head. A randc 



^yei^.uu snake your head. A random string 
^ji^- Your finer female sense offends. 
Well — were it not a pleasant thing 

To fall asleep with all one's friends; 
To pass with all our social tics 

To silence from the paths of men; 
And every hundred years to rise 

And learn the world, and sleep again : 
To sleep thro' tern)s of mighty wars, 

And wake on science grown to more, 
On secrets of the brain, the stars. 

As wild as aught of fairy lore; 



280 THE DAY-DREAM. 



And all that else the years will show, 

The Poet forms of stronger hours. 
The vast Republics that may grow. 

The Federations and the Powers; 
Titanic forces tjjking birth 

In divers seasons, divers climes; 
For we are ancients of the earth. 

And ii> the morning of the times. 

So sleeping, so arous'd from sleep 

Thro' sunnv decades new and strange, 

Or gay quinquenniads would we reap 
The flower and quintessence of change. 

Ah, yet would I — and would I might? 

So much your eyes my fancy take — 
Be still the first to leap to light 

That I might kiss those eyes awake! 
For, am I right or am I wrong, 

To choose your own you did not care; 
You'd have my moral from the song, 

And I will take my pleasure there: 
And, am I right or am I ^^ rong. 

My fancy, ranging thro' and thro', 
To search a meaning for the song. 

Perforce will still rexert to you; 
Nor finds a closer truth than this 

All-graceful head, so richly curl'd. 
And evermore a costly kiss 

The prelude to soine brighter world. 

For since the time when Adam first 

Embrac'd his Eve in happy hour. 
And every bird of Eden burst 

In carol, every bud to flower. 
What eyes, like thine, have waken'd hopes? 

What lips, like thine, so sweetly join'd? 
Where on the double rosebud droops 

The fulness of the pensive mind; 
Which all too dearly self-involv'd. 

Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me; 
A sleep by kisses undissolv'd. 

That lets thee neither hear nor see: 
But break it. In the name of wife. 




'Young ashes pirouetted down, 

Coquetting with ^'oung beeches.'^ 

Seepage s82. 



AMPHION. 



281 



And in the lights that name may give. 
Are clasp'd the moral of thy life, 
And that for which I care to live. 



EPILOGUE. 



So, Ladv Flora, take my lay, 

And, if you find a meaning there, 
O whisper to yonr glass, and sav, 

" What wonder, if he thinks me fair? " 
What wonder I was all unwise. 

To shape the song for your delight, 
Like long-tail'd birds of Paradise, 

That float thro' Heaven, and cannot light? 
Or old-world trains, upheld at court 

By Cupid boys of blooming hue — 
But take it — earnest wed with sport, 

And either sacred unto vou. 



•••^?«S^g-«s^«-- 



AMPHION. 






i-^,^-^ — _^-„,r-A Y f,,ti-,er left a park to me, 
Rut it is wild and barren, 
_. A garden too with scarce a tree 
And waster than a warren : 
Yet say the neighbors when they call, 
It is not bad but good land, 
■^^ i^ And in it is the germ of all 
That grows within the woodland. 




O had I lived when song was great 

In days of old Amjihion, 
And ta'en iny fiddle to the gate, 

Nor cared for seed or scion! 
And had I lived when song was great, 

And legs of trees were limber. 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

And fiddled in the timber! 



282 



AMPHIOX. 



'T is said he had a tuneful tongue, 

Such liappy intonation. 
Wherever he sat down and sung- 

He left a small plantation; 
Wherever in a lonely grove 

He set up his forlorn pipes, 
The gouty oak began to move, 

And flounder into hornpipes. 

The mountain stirr'd its bushy crown, 

And, as tradition teaches, 
Young ashes pirouetted down 

Coquetting with young beeches; 
And briony-vine and ivy-wreath 

Ran forward to his rhyming. 
And from tlie valleys underneath 

Came little copses climbing'. 

The birch-tree svvang her fragrant hair, 

The bramble cast her berry. 
The gin within the juniper 

Began to make him merry. 
The poplars, in long orilcr due. 

With cypress promenaded. 
The shock-head willows two and two 

By rivers gallopaded. 

Came wet-shot alder fiom the wave, 

Came yews, a dismal coterie; 
Each pluck'd his one foot from the grave, 

Poussetting with a sloe-tree: 
Old elms came breaking from the vine. 

The vine stream'd out to follow. 
And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine 

From many a cloudy hollow. 

And wasn't it a sight to see, 

When, ere his song was ended. 
Like some great landslip, tree bv tree. 

The country-side descended ; 
And shepherds from the mountain-eaves 

Look'd down, half-pleas'd, half-frighten'd, 
As dash'd about the drunken leaves 

The random sunshine lighten'd! 



AMPHIOA'. 283 



O, natuie first was fresh to men, 

And wanton without measure : 
So youthful and so flexile then, 

You moved her at \our pleasure. 
Twang- out, my fiddle! shake the twigs! 

And make her dance attendance; 
Blow, flute, and stir tiie stiff-set sprigs, 

And scirrhous roots and tendons. 

'Tisvain! in such a brassy age 

I could not move a thistle: 
The very sparrows in the hedge 

Scarce answer to my whistle: 
Or at the most, when three-parts-sick 

With strumming and with scraping, 
A jackass heehaws from the rick, 

The passive oxen gaping. 

But what is that I hear.' a sound 

Like sleepy counsel pleading: 
O Lord! — 'tis in my neighbor's ground. 

The modern Muses reading. 
They read Botanic Treatises, 

And Works on Gardening thro' there, 
And Methods of transplanting trees, 

To look as if they grew there. 

The wither'd Misses! how t he v prose 

O'er books of travell'd seamen, 
And show you slips of all that grows 

From England to Van Diemen. 
They read in arbors dipt and cut. 

And alleys, faded places. 
By squares of tropic summer shut 

And warm'd in crystal cases. 

But these, tho' fed with careful dirt. 

Are neither green nor sappy; 
Half-conscious of the garden-squirt. 

The spindlings look unhappy. 
Better to me the meanest weed 

That blows upon its mountain, 
The vilest herb that runs to seed 

Beside its native fountain. 



284 



W/LL WATERPROOF'S Li'RICAL MONOLOGUE. 



And I must work thro" months of toil, 

And years of cultivation, 
Upon my proper patch of soil 

To grow my own plantation. 
I'll take the showers as they fall, 

I W\\\ not vex my bosom : 
Enough if at the end of all 

A little garden blossom. 



WILL WATERPROOF'S LVRICAL MONOLOGUE. 



^Pf^-> 




MADE AT THE COCK. 



r^PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock, 
To which I must resort. 
How goes the time? 'Tis five o'clock. 

Go fetch a pint of port: 
But let it not be such as that 
y-. You set before chance comers, 
'-'■'^^But such whose tather-grape grew fat 
On Lusitanian summers. 



No vain libation to the Muse, 

But may she still be kind. 
And whisper lovely words, and use 

Her influence on the mind. 
To make me write my random rhymes, 

Ere they be half-forgotten; 
Nor add and alter, many times, 

Till all be ripe and rotten. 



I pledge her, and she comes and dips 

Her laurel in the wine, 
And lays it thrice upon my lips, 

These favor'd lips of mine; 
Until the charm have power to make 

New life-blood warm the bosom. 
And barren commonplaces break 

In full and kindly blossom. 



WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 285 

I pledge her silent at the board; 

Her gradual fingers steal 
And touch upon the master-chord 

Of all I felt and feel. 
Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, 

And phantom hopes assemble; 
And that child's heart within the man's 

Begins to move and tremble. 

Thro' njany an hour of summer suns 

By many pleasant ways. 
Against its foinitain upward runs 

The current of xny daj's. 
I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd; 

The gas-light wavers dimmer; 
And softly thro' a vinous mist, 

Mv college friendships glimmer. 

I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, 

Unboding critic-pen, 
Or that eternal want of pence. 

Which vexes public men. 
Who hold their hands to all, and crv 

For that which all deny them, — 
Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry, 

And all the world go bv them. 

Ah yet, tho' all tlie world forsake, 

Tho' fortune clip mv wings, 
I will not cramp my heart, nor take 

Half-views of men and things. 
Let Whig and Tory stir their blood ; 

There must be stormy ^veather: 
But for some true result of good 

All parties work together. 

Let there be thistles, there are grapes; 

If old things, there are new; 
Ten thousand broken lights and shapes, 

Yet glimpses of the true. 
Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme. 

We lack not rhymes and reasons. 
As on this whirligig of Time 

We circle \vith the seasons. 



286 W/LL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 

This earth is rich in man and maid; 

With fair horizons bound ! 
This whole wide earth of light and shade 

Comes out, a perfect round. 
High over roaring Temple-bar, 

And, set in Heaven's third story, 
I look at all things as they are. 

But thro' a kind of glory. 



Head-waiter, honor'd by the guest 

Half-mus'd, or reeling-ripe. 
The pint you brought me, was the best 

That ever came from pipe. 
But tho' the port surpasses praise, 

My nerves have dealt with stiffer. 
Is there some magic in the place? 

Or do my peptics differ? 

For since I came to live and learn. 

No pint of white or led 
Had ever half the po\ver to turn 

This wheel within my head. 
Which bears a season'd brain about, 

Unsubject to confusion. 
The' soak'd and saturate, out and out. 

Thro' every convolution. 

For I am of a numerous house. 

With many kinsmen gay. 
Where long and largely we carouse. 

As who shall say me nay. 
Each month, a birthday coming on, 

We drink defying trouble. 
Or sometimes two would meet in one, 

And then we drank it double ; 

Whether the vintage, yet unkept, 

Had relish fiery-new. 
Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, 

As old as Waterloo; 
Or stow'd (when classic Canning died) 



\\ ILL WATERPROOF'S LTRJCAL MONOLOGUE. 287 

In musty bins and chambers, 
Had cast upon its crusty side 
The gloom of ten Decembers. 

The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is! 

She answerVl to my call. 
She changes with that mood or this, 

Is all-in-all to all: 
She lit the spark within mv throat. 

To make my blood run quicker. 
Used all her fierv will, and smote 

Her life into the liquor. 

And hence this halo lives about 

The waiter's hands, that reach 
To each his perfect pint of stout, 

His proper chop to each. 
He looks not like the common breed 

That with the napkin dally; 
I tliink he caine like Ganymede, 

From some delightful vallev. 

The Cock was of a larger egg 

Than modern poultry drop, 
Stept forward on a firmer leg, » 

And cramm'd a plumper crop; 
Upon an ampler dunghill trod, 

Crow'd lustier late and early, 
Sipt wine from silver, praising God, 

And raked in golden barley. 

A private life was all his joy, 

Till in a court he saw 
A something-pottle-bodied boy. 

That knuckled at the taw: 
He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and good 

Flew over ro(jf and casement: 
His brothers of the weather stood 

Stock-still for sheer amazement. 

But he, by farmstead, thorpe, and spire. 

And follow'd with acclaims, 
A sign to many a staring shire. 

Came crowing over Thames. 



288 WrLL WATERPROOF'S LTRICAL MONOLOGUE. 

Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, 
Till, where the street grows straiter. 

One fix'd forever at the door, 
And one became head-waiter. 



But whither would my fancy go? 

How out of place she makes 
The violet of a legend blow 

Among the chops and steaks! 
'Tis but a steward of the can. 

One shade more plump than common; 
As just and mere a serving-man 

As any, born of woman. 

I ranged too high: what draws me down 

Into the common day? 
Is it the weight of that half-crown, 

Which I shall have to pay? 
For, something duller than at first. 

Nor whoUv comfortable, 
I sit (my empty glass revers'd). 

And thrumming on the table; 

Half-fearful that, with self at strife, 

I take myself to task ; 
Lest of the fulness of my life 

I leave an empty flask : 
For I had hope, by something rare, 

To prove myself a poet; 
But, while I plan and plan, my hair 

Is gray before I know it. 

So fares it since the years began. 

Till they be gather'd up; 
The truth, that flies the flowing can, 

Will haunt the vacant cup: 
And others' follies teach us not. 

Nor much their wisdom teaches; 
And most, of sterling worth, is what 

Our own experience preaches. 



WILL WATERPRO OF'S LTRICAL MONOLOGUE. 289 

Ah, let the rusty theme alone! 

We know not what we know. 
But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone, 

'Tis gone, and let it go. 
'Tis gone: a thousand such have slipt 

Away from my embraces. 
And fall'n into the dusty crvpt 

Of darken'd forms and faces. 

Go, therefore, thou ! thy betters went 

Long since, and came no more: 
With peals of genial clamor sent 

From many a tavern-door, 
With twisted quirks and happy hits, 

From misty men of letters; 
The tavern-hours of mighty wits, 

Thine elders and thy betters. 

Hours, when the Poet's words and looks 

Had yet their native glow: 
Nor yet the fear of little books 

Had made him talk for show; 
But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd. 

He flash'd his random speeches; 
Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd. 

His literary leeches. 

So mix forever with the past, 

Like all good things on earth! 
For should I prize thee, couldst thou last. 

At half thy real worth? 
I hold it good, good things should pass: 

With time I will not quarrel: 
It is but yonder empty glass 

That makes me maudhn-moral. 



19 



Head waiter of the chop-house here. 

To which I must resort, 
I too must part; I hold thee dear 

For this good pint of port. 



290 WILL WATERPROOF'S LTRICAL MONOLOGUE. 



For this, thou shalt from :ill things suck 
Marrow of mirth and laughter; 

And, wheresoe'er thou move, good hick 
Shall fling her old shoe after. 

But thou wilt never move from hence. 

The sphere thy fate allots : 
Thv latter days increas'd with pence 

Go down among the pots: 
Thou battenest by the greasy gleam 

In haunts of hungry sinners. 
Old boxes, larded with the steam 

Of thirty thousand dinners. 

We fret, we fume, would shift our skins. 

Would quarrel with our lot: 
Thv care is, under polish'd tins. 

To serve the hot-and-hot; 
To come and go, and come again. 

Returning like the pewit, 
And watch'd by silent gentlemen, 

That trifle with the cruet. 

Live long, ere from thy topmost head 

The thick-set hazel dies; 
Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread 

The corners of thine eyes: 
Live long, nor feel in head or chest 

Our changeful equinoxes, 
Till mellow Death, like some late guest, 

Shall call thee from the boxes. 

But when he calls, and thou shalt cease 

To pace the gritted floor, 
And, laying down an unctuous lease 

Of life, shalt earn no more: 
No carv'd cross-bones, the types of Death, 

Shall show thee past to Heaven ; 
But carv'd cross-pipes, and, underneath, 

A pint-pot, neatly graven. 



^■ 









f ,^^ 










^^^ 



■■>'*■ I Llii^fT,.''^ 



"For me the torrent ever pour'd." 



Ii^ E. L., OX HIS TRA VELS IN GREECE. 



291 



TO E. Z., OX HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE. 




LLYRIAN woodlands, echoing falls 
Of water, sheets of summer glass, 
The long divine Peneian pass. 

The vast Akrokeraunian walls, 

Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, 
With such a pencil, such a pen. 
You shadow forth to distant men, 

I read and felt that I was there: 



And trust me while I turn'd the page. 
And track'd you still on classic ground, 
I grew in gladness till I found 

My spirits in the golden age. 

For me the torrent ever pour'd 

And glisten'd — here and there alone 

The broad-limb'd Gods at random thrown 

By fountain-urns; — and Naiads oar'd 



A glimmering shoulder under gloom 
Of cavern pillars; on the swell 
The silver lily heav'd and fell ; 

And many a slope was rich in hloom 

From him that on the mountain lea 
By dancing rivulets fed his flocks. 
To him who sat upon the rocks. 

And fluted to the morning sea. 




292 



LADT CLARE. 




9 



"wurx. 



_ _ . _ ..-t^^'V 



-^L?idy;-(5l^P.-^ 






.L,.-!. 



-L 



JL 



i^Mx 



.^^ 




^^T was the time when lilies blow, 
"'^ And clouds are highest up in air, 
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn: 
Lovers long-betroth'd were they: 

They too will wed the morrow morn: 
God's blessing on the day! 



" He does not love me for my birth, 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair: 

He loves me for my own true worth. 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse, 

Said, " Who was this that went from thee? " 
" It was my cousin," said Ladv Clare, 

" To-morrow he weds with me." 



« O God be thank'd!" said Alice the nurse, 
" That all comes round so just and fair: 



LADY CLARE. 293 



Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, 
And you are not the Lady Clare." 

" Are ve out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?" 
Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild? " 

" As God's above," said Alice the nurse, 
" I speak the truth : 3'ou are my child. 

" The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread! 
I buried her like my own sweet child, 

And put my child in her stead." 

" Falsely, falseh' have ye done, 

O mother," she said, " if this be true, 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So manj' years from his due." 

"Nay no\v, mv child," said Alice the nui"se, 

" But keep the secret for your life. 
And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, 

When vou are man and wife." 



" If I'm a beggar born," she said, 
"I ^vill speak out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull off, pull off, the broach of gold, 
And fling the diamond necklace by." 

« Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
" But keep the secret all ye can." 

She said "Not so: but I will know 
If there be any faith in man." 

"Nay now, what foith? " said Alice the nurse, 
" The man will cleave unto his right." 

" And he shall have it," the lady replied, 
" Tho' I should die to-night." 

" Yet give one kiss to your mother dear! 

Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee." 
" O mother, mother, mother," she said, 

" So strange it seems to me. 



294 



LADr CLARE. 



" Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, 
My mother dear, if this be so. 

And la}' your hand upon my head. 
And bless me, mother, ere I go." 

She clad herself in a russet gown. 
She was no longer Lady Clare: 

She went by dale, and she went by down, 
With a single rose in her hair. 




The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand. 

And follow'd her all the way. 



Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: 
" O Lady Clare, von shame your worth! 



LADY CLARE. 



295 



Why come you drest like a village maid, 
• That are the flower of the earth? " 



" If I come drest like a village maid, 

I am but as my fortunes are: 
I am a beggar born," she said, 

" And not the Lady Clare." 

" Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" For I am yours in -word anti in deed. 

Play me no tricks," sa)d Loid Ronald, 
" Your riddle is hard to read." 

O and proudly stood she up! 

Her heart within her did not fail: 
She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes. 

And told hmi all her nurse's tale. 

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn: 

He turn'd, and kiss'd her where she stood: 

" If you are not the heiress born, 

" An.i I," said he, "the next in blood — 

" If you are not the heiress born. 
And I," said he, " the lawful heir. 

We two will wed to-morrow morn, 
And you shall still be Lady Clare." 




296 



S//f GALAHAD. 



SIR GALAHAD. 





#"" 



oocl blade carves the casques of men 
My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 
Because my, heart is pure, 
riic shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 
riie hard brands shiver on the steel, 
/•A r Tlie splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, 

The horse and rider reel: 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 

And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers. 
That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

On whom their favors fall! 
For them I battle to the end, 

To save from shame and thrall : 
But ail my heart is dra\vn above, 

Mv knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine: 
I never felt the kiss of love. 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam, 

Me mightier transports move and thrill; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and will. 



When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims, 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hvmns: 
Then bv some secret shrine I ride: 

I hear a voice, but none are there: 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 

The tapers burning fair. 



S//i GALAHAD. 



297 




Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 
The silver vessels sparkle clean, 

The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 
And solemn chants resoimd between. 



Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark; 
I leap on board: no helmsman steers, 

I float till all is dnrk. 
A gentle sound, an awful light! 

Three angels bear the holy Grail: 
With folded feet, in stoles of white. 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides, 

And star-like mingles with the stars. 



298 S/R GALAHAD. 



When on mv goodly charger borne 

Thro' dreaming towns I go, 
The cock ciows ere the Christmas morn 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
Tlie tempest crackies on the leads, 

And, ringing, spins from brand and mail; 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 

Antl gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height; 

No branchv thicket shelter yields: 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 

Fly o'er ^vaste fens and windv fields. 

A maiden knight — to me is given 

Such hope, I kno\v not fear; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease. 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 

Whose odors haunt mj' dreams, 
And, stricken by an angel's hand. 

This mortal armor that I wear, 
This weight and size, this heart and eyes. 

Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky. 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmonv 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod, 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear: 
" O just anil faithful knight of God! 

Ride on! the prize is near." 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
All-arm'd I ride, whate'cr betide, 

Until I find the holy Grail. 




ST. AGA'ES' EVE. 



299 




ST. AGNES' EVE. 




^EEP on the convent-roof the snows 
Are sparkHng to the moon : 
i (SV ^^y ^leath to heaven like vapor goes: 
Ma}- my soul follow soon! 
The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant down the snovvv sward, 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord: 
Make Thou mv spirit pure and clear 

As re the frosty skies, 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 
That in mv bosom lies. 



300 TO 



As these white robes are soiled and dark, 

To yonder shining ground; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee; 
So in mine earthly house I am, 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far, 

Thro' all yon starlight keen, 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, 

In raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors 

The flashes come and go; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors. 

And strews her lights below, 
And deepens on and up! the gates 

Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenl}' Bridegroom waits, 

To make ine pure of sin. 
The Sabbaths of Eternity, 

One Sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shining sea — 

The bridegroom with his bride! 



■••^5=iS$::&«sS«— 



TO 



AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. 



"Cursed be he that moves my bones." — Shakespeare* s Epitaph, 




3^c OU miglit have won the Poet's name, 
J^tj^t If such be worth the winning now, 
And gain'd a laurel for your bi'ow 
Of sounder leaf than I can claim. 



But you have made the wiser choice, 
A life that moves to gracious ends 
Thro' troops of unrecording friends, 

A deedful life, a silent voice: 



TO 



301 



And }-ou have miss'd the ineverent doom 
Of those tliat wear the Poet's crown: 
Hereafter, neither knave nor clown 

Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. 

For now the Poet cannot die 
Nor leave iiis music as of old, 
But round him ere he scarce be cold 

Begins the scandal and the cry: 

"Proclaim the faults he would not show: 
Break lock and seal: Betray the trust: 
Keep nothing sacred: 'tis but just 

The many-headed beast should know." 

Ah shameless! for he did but sing 

A song that pleas'd us from its worth; 
No public life was his on earth. 

No blazon'd statesman he, nor king. 

He gave the people of his best : 

His worst he kept, his best he gave. 

My Shakespeare's curse on clown and knave 

Who will not let his ashes rest! 

Who make it seem more sweet to be 
The little life of bank and brier, 
The bird that pipes his lone desire 

And dies unheard within his tree, 

Than he that warbles long and loud 
And drops at Glory's temple-gates, 
For whom the carrion vulture waits 

To tear his heart before the crowd! 




302 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 




^"- ai^' N her ear he whispers gayly, 
^^:|h "If my heart by signs can tell, 

' ^ IC. Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, 
And I think thou lov'st nie well." 
She replies, in accents tainter, 

"There is none I love like thee." 
He is but a landscape-painter, 
And a village maiden she. 
He to lips, that fondly falter. 

Presses his without reproof: 
Leads her to tiie village altar. 

And they leave her father's roof. 
"I can make no marriage present; 

Little can I give my wife. 
Love will make our cottage pleasant, 

And I love thee more than life." 
They by parks and lodges going 

See the lordly castles stand; 
Summer woods, about them blowing, 

Made a murmur in the land. 
From deep tiiought himself he rouses. 

Says to her that loves him well, 
" Let us see these handsome houses 

■ Where the wealthy nobles dwell." 
So she goes by him attended. 

Hears him lovingly converse, 
Sees whatever fair and splendid 

Lay betwixt his home and hers; 

Parks with oak and chestnut shady, 

Parks and order'd gardens great. 

Ancient homes of lord and lady, 

Built for pleasure and for state. 

All he shows her makes him dearer. 

Evermore she seems to gaze 
On that cottage growing nearer. 

Where they twain will spend their days. 
O but she will love him truly! 
He shall have a cheerful home; 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 303 

She will order all things duly. 

When beneath his roof they come. 
Thus her heart rejoices greatly, 

Till a gate'way she discerns 
With armorial bearings stately, 

And beneath the gate she turns; 
Sees a mansion more majestic 

Than all those she sa\v before: 
Many a gallant gay domestic 

Bows before him at the door. 
And they speak in gentle murmur, 

When they answer to his call, 
While he treads -with footstep firmer, 

Leading on from hall to hall. 
And, while now she wonders blindly, 

Nor the meaning can divine, 
Proudly turns he round and kindly, 

" All of this is mine and thine." 
Here he lives in state and bounty. 

Lord of Burleigh, fair and free. 
Not a lord in ail the county 

Is so great a lord as he. 
All at once the color flushes 

Her sweet face from brow to chin: 
As it were with shame she blushes. 

And her spirit changed within. 
Then her countenance all oyer 

Pale again as death did prove; 
But he clasp'd her like a lover. 

And he cheer'd her soul vvitii love. 
So she strove against her weakness, 

Tho' at times her spirit sank: 
Shap'd her heart w^ith womanV meekness 

To all duties of her rank : 
And a gentle consort made he, 

And her gentle mind was such 
That she grew a noble lad}, 

And the people lov'd her much. 
But a trouble weigh'd upon her. 

And perplex'd her, night and morn. 
With the burden of an honor 

Unto which she was not born. 
Faint she grew, and ever fainter, 

As she murmur'd, " O, that he 
Were once more that landscape-painter. 



504 



THE POET'S -SONG. 



Which did win my heart from me!" 
So she droop'd and droop'd before him, 

Fading slowly from his side: 
Three fair children first she bore him, 

Then before her time she died. 
Weeping, weeping late and early, 

Walking up and pacing down. 
Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, 

Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. 
And he came to look upon her, 

And he look'd at her and said, 
" Bring the dress and put it on her, 

That she wore when she was wed." 
Then her people, softly treading. 

Bore to earth her body, drest 
In the dress that she was wed in. 

That her spirit might have rest. 



•••-*a«3;g-«=S«- 



THE POET'S SONG. 




^HE rain had fallen, the Poet arose. 

He pass'd by the town and out of the street. 
A light wind blew from the gates of the sun. 
And waves of shadow went over the wheat. 
And he sat him down in a lonely place, 
And chanted a melody loud and sweet, 
That made the wild swan pause in her cloud. 
And the lark drop down at his feet. 



The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee. 

The snake slipt under a spray, 
The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak, 

And stared, with his foot on the prey. 
And the nightingale thought, " I have sung many songs, 

But never a one so gay. 
For he sings of what the ^vorld will be 

When the years have died away." 










And the nightingale thought, " I have sung many songt" 



I 



EDWARD GRAr. 



305 



EDWARD GRAr. 




,WEET Emma Moieland of yonder town 
^ Met me walking on yonder way, 
j^'^ic And have you lost your heart," she said: 
y\X " And are you married yet, Edward Gray?*' 




Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me: 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 

" Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more 
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. 



20 



306 



EDWARD GRAY. 



" Ellen Adair she loved nie well, 

Against her father's and mother's wil!: 

To-day I sat for an hour and wept, 
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 

" Shy she was, and I thought her cold; 

Thought her proud, and fled over the sea; 
Fill'd I was with folly and spite. 

When Ellen Adair was dying for nie. 

" Cruel, cruel the words I said ! 

Cruelly came they back to-dav: 
' You're too slight and fickle,' I said, 

' To trouble the heart of Etiward Gray.' 

" There I put ni)' face in the grass — • 
Whisper'd, ' Listen to my despair: 

I repent me of all I did : 

Speak a little, Ellen Adair! ' 

" Then I took a pencil, and wrote 

On the mossy stone, as I lay, 
'Here lies the body of Ellen Adair; 

And here the heart of Edward Gray!' 

" Love may come, and love may go, 
And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree; 

But I will love no more, no more. 
Till Ellen Adair comes back to me. 

" Bitterly wept I over the stone; 

Bitterly weeping I turn'd away: 
There lies the body of Ellen Adair! 

And there the heart of Edward Gray!" 




S/Jf LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. 



307 



SIR LAUNCELOT AXl) QUEEN GULNEVERE. 




A FRAGMENT. 



feIKE souls that balance joy and pain,, 

With tears and smiles from heaven again 
The maiden Spring upon the jjlain 
Caine in a sunlit fall of rain. 

In crystal vapor cver^'vvhcre 
Blue isles of heaven laughVl between, 
s-'^vi^And, far in forest-deeps unseen, 
cMJi^^'' The topmost elm-tree gather'd green 
V 'k$fa^ From drauofhts of balmv air. 



Sometimes the linnet piped his song. 
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong: 
Sometimes the sparhawk, wheelVl along, 
Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong: 

By grass)' capes with fuller sound 
In curves the yellowing river ran, 
And drooping chestnut-buds began 
To spread into the perfect fan, 

Above the teeming ground. 

Then, in the boyhood of the year, 
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 
Rode thro' the coverts of the deer, 
With blissful treble ringing clear. 

She seem'd a part of joyous Spring: 
A gown of grass-green silk she wore, 
Buckl'd with golden clasps before; 
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 

Clos'd in a golden ring. 




Now on some twisted ivy-net, 

Now by some tinkling rivulet. 

In mosses mixt with violet 

Her cream-white mule his pastern set; 

And fleeter now she skimm'd the plains 



308 THE EAGLE. 



Than she whose elfin prancer sprin^js 
By night to eery waibHngs, 
When all the glimmering moorland rings 
With jingling bridle-reins. 

As she fled fast thro' snn and shade, 
The happy winds upon her play'd, 
Blowing the ringlet from the braid : 
She look'd so lovelv as she sway'd 

The rein witli dainty finger tips, 
A man had given all other bliss. 
And all his worldly worth for this. 
To waste his whole heart in one kiss 

Upon her perfect lips. 




THE EAGLE. 



FRAGMENT. 



He clasps the crag with li joked hands; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ring'd with the azure woi-ld, he stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; 
He watches from his mountain walls. 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 



THE BEGGAR MAID. 



309 




THE BEGGAR MAID. 




ER arms across her breast she laid: 
She was more fair than words can say 
"■ Barefooted came the beggar maid 
Before the king Cophetua. 
In robe and crown the king stept down, 

To meet and greet her on her way : 
" It is no wonder," said the lords, 
" She is more beautiful than day." 



As shines the moon in clouded skies,- 
She in her poor attire was seen : 

One prais'd her ankles, one her eyes. 
One her dark hair and lovesome me;:i. 



310 



A FAREWBLL. 



So sweet a face, such angel grace, 
In all that land had never been: 

Cophetua sware a royal oath: 

" This beggar maid shall ba my queen! " 



■*J=:*$;;S-»ss«- 



A FAREWELL. 



tr ';■■( LOW down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 
Thy tribute wave deliver: 
No more by thee my steps shall be. 
Forever and forever. 



keSS^^i 



? 



Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet then a river: 
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be, 

Forever and forever. 



But here will sigh thine alder tree. 
And here thine aspen shiver; 

And here by thee will hum the bee. 
Forever and forever. 

A thousand suns will stream on thee, 
A thousand moons will quiver; 

But not by thee my steps shall be, 
Forever and forever. 





"Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 
A rivulet then a river." 



THE VISION OF SIN. 



311 



THE VISION OP SIN. 



iM%m 



#.^^*^ 




~# HAD ;i vision when the nieht was late: 

\ . . 

((.•i'-jfe'p^ A youth came riding toward a palace-gate. 

. jj-tf-'^IIc rode a horse with wings, that would have flown, 

f 5|fj*4rjf But that his heavy rider kept him down. 

*H i,"' M^ And from the palace came a child of sin, 

'','-■,- _ ^^ And took him by the curls, and led him in, 

'-^ Wliere sat a company with heated e\'es, 

Expecting when a fountain should arise: 

A sleepy light upon their brows and lips — 

As wlien the sun, a ci'cscent of eclipse, 

Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and capes — 

.Sufl'us'd them, sitting, lying, languid shapes, 

By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, and piles of grapes, 



II. 



Then methought I heard a mellow sonnd, 
Gathering up from all the lower ground; 
Narrowing in to where they sat assembled 
Low voluptuous music winding trembled, 
Wov'n in circles: they that heard it sigh'd. 
Panted hand in hand with faces pale. 
Swung themselves, and in low tones replied; 
Till the fountain spouted, showering wide 
Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail; 
Then the music touch'd the gates and died; 
■Rose again from where it seem'd to fail. 
Storm 'd in orbs of song, a growing gale; 
Till thronging in and in, to where they waited. 
As 't were a hundred-throated nightingale. 
The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd and palpitated; 
Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound. 
Caught the sparkles, and in circles. 
Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid mazes, 
Flung the torrent rainbow round: 
Then they started from their places. 
Moved with violence, chang'd in hue. 



312 THE VISION OF SIN. 

Caught each other with wild grimaces, 
Half-invisible to the view , 
Wheeling with precipitate paces 
To the melody, till they flew, 
Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces, 
Twisted hard in fierce embraces. 
Like to Furies, like to Graces, 
Dash'd together in blinding dew: 
Till, kill'd with some luxurious agony, 
The nerve-dissolving melodv 
FlutterVl hc;idlong from the sk\-. 



And then I look'd up toward a mountain-tract, 
That girt the region with high cliff and lawn : 
I saw that every morning, far withdrawn 
Beyond the darkness and the cataract, 
God made himself an awful rose of dawn. 
Unheeded: and detaching, fold b}' fold, 
From those still height^, and, slowly drawing near, 
A vapor heavy, hueless, formless, cold, 
Came floating on for man}- a month and year. 
Unheeded: and I thought I would have spoken. 
And warn'd that madman ere it gjew too late: 
But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine was broken. 
When that cold vapor touch'd the palace-gate, 
And link'd again. I saw within my head 
A gray and gap-tooth'd man as lean as death. 
Who slowly rode across a wither'd heath. 
And lighted at a ruin'd inn and said: 



" Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin ! 

Here is custom come your way. 
Take my brute, and lead him in. 

Stuff his ribs with mouldv hay. 

" Bitter bar-maid, waning fast! 

See that sheets are on my bed; 
What! the flower of life is past: 

It is long before you wed. 



THE VISION OF SIN. 313 



" Sliu-shod waiter, lank and sour, 
At the Dragon on the heath! 

Let us have a quiet hour. 

Let us hob-and-nob with Death. 

" I am old, but let me drink; 

Bring me spices, bring me wine", 
I remember, when I think, 

That my youth was half divine. 

" Wine is good for shrivell'd lips, 
When a blanket wraps the day. 

When the rotten woodland drips. 
And the leaf is stamp'd in clav. 

" Sit thee down, and have no shame, 
Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee: 

What care I for any name? 
What for order or degree? 

" Let me screw thee up a peg: 

Let me loose thy tongue with ^vine: 

Callest thou that thing a leg? 

Which is thinnest? thine or mine? 

" Thou shalt not be saved by works: 

Thou hast been a sinner too: 
Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks. 

Empty scarecrows, I and you! 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can: 
Have a rouse before the morn : 

Every moment dies a man. 
Every moment one is born. 

" We are men of ruin'd blood; 

Therefore comes it we are wise. 
Fish are we that love the mud. 

Rising to no fancy-flies. 

"Name and fame! to fly sublime 

Thro' the courts, the camps, the schools 



314 THE VISION OF SIN'. 



Is to be the ball of Time, 

Bandied in tlie hands of fools. 

" Friendship! — to be two in one — 

Let the canting liar pack ! 
Well I know, when I am gone, 

How^ she mouths behind my back. 

" Virtue! — to be good and just — 
Every heart, when sifted well, 

Is a clot of warmer dust, 

Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell. 

" O! we too as well can look 

Whited thought and cleanly life 

As the priest, above his book 
Leering; at his neisfhbor's ^vife. 



" Fill the cup, and fill the can : 
Have a rouse before the morn 

Every inoment dies a man, 
Every moment one is born. 

"Drink, and let the parties rave; 

They are fiU'd with idle spleen* 
Rising, falling, like a wave, 

For they know not what they mean. 

" He that roars for liberty 

Faster binds a tyrant's power* 

And the tyrant's cruel glee 
Forces on the freer hoin\ 



" Fill the can, and fill the cup: 
All the windy ways of men 

Are but dust that i-ises up. 
And is lightly laid again. 

" Greet her with applausive breath, 
Freedom, gayly doth she tre.id; 

In her right a civic wreath, 
In her left a human head. 



THE I 'I SI ON OF SIN. 315 



" No, I love not what is new; 

She is of an ancient house; 
And I think we know tlie hue 

Of that cap upon her brows. 

" Let lier go! licr thirst slie slakes 
Where the bloody conduit runs: 

Then her sweetest meal she makes 
On the first-born of her sons. 

" Drink to lofty hopes that cool — 
Visions of a perfect State : 

Di'ink we, last, the public fool, 
Frantic love and frantic hate. 

« 

" Chant me now some ^vicked stave, 
Till thv drooping courage rise. 

And tlie glow-worm of the grave 
Glimmer in thv rheumv eves. 



" Fear not thou to loose thy tongue; 

Set thv hoary fancies free; 
What is loathsome to the voung 

Savors well to thee and me. 

■'■ Change, reverting to the vears. 
When thy nerves could understand 

What there is in loving tears. 

And the warmth of hand in hand. 

. " Tell me tales of thy first love — 
April hopes, the fools of chance: 
Till the graves begin to move, 
And the dead begin to dance. 

" Fill the can, and fill the cup: 
All the \vindv wavs of men 

Are but dust that rises up. 
And is lightly laid again. 

" Trooping from their mouldy dens 
The chap-fallen circle spreads: 



ai6 THE VISION OF SIN. 



Welcome, fellow-citizens, 

Hollow hearts and empty heads! 

" You are bones, and what of that? 

Every face, however full. 
Padded round with flesh and fat, 

Is but modell'd on a skull. 

" Death is king, and Vivat Rex! 

Tread a measure on the stones. 
Madam — if I know your sex. 

From the fashion of your bones. 

" No, I cannot pr^se the fire 
In your e\'e — nor yet your lip: 

All the more do I admire 

Joints of cimning workmanship. 

" Lo! God's likeness — the ground-plan 
Neither modell'd, glazed, or framed: 

Buss me, thou rough sketch of man. 
Far too naked to be shamed ! 

" Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, 
While we keep a little breath ! 

Drink to heavy Ignorance! 

Hob-and-nob with brother Death! 

" Thou art mazed, the night is long, 
And the longer night is near: 

What! I am not all as wrong 
As a bitter jest is dear. 

" Youthful hopes, by scores, to all. 
When the locks are crisp and curl'd; 

Unto me my maudlin gall 

And my mockeries of the world. 

" Fill the cup, and fill the can! 

Mingle madness, mingle scorn! 
Dregs of life, and lees of man: 

Yet we will not die forlorn." 



MOVE EASTWARD, HAPPT EARTH. 



317 



The voice grew taint: there came a further change; 

Once inore uprose the mystic mountain range: 

Below were men and horses pierc'd with worms, 

And slowly quickening into lower forms; 

By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of dross. 

Old plash of rains, and refuse patch'd with moss. 

Then some one spake: " Behold! it was a crime 

Of sense aveng'd by sense that wore with time." 

Another said: " The crime of sense became 

The crime of malice, and is equal blame." 

And one: " He had not wholly quench'd his power; 

A little grain of conscience made him sour." 

At last I heard a voice upon the slope 

Cry to the summit, " Is there any hope? " 

To which an answer peal'd from that high land, 

But in a tongue no man could understand ; 

And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn 

God made himself an awful rose of dawn. 



■••-»«i«$Z*«53«— • 



MOVE EASTWARD, HAPPT EARTH. 




OVE eastward, happy earth, and leave 
Yon orange sunset waning slow: 

From fringes of the faded eve, 
O, happy planet, eastward go: 

Till over thy dark shoulder glow 
Thy silver sister-world, and rise 

To glass herself in dewy eyes 
That watch me from the glen below. 



Ah, bear me with thee, lightly borne, 
Dip forward under starry light, 

And move me to my marriage morn, 
And round again to happy night. 



318 



BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. 











sas^' _ a/-" 



'^liMi^ 



^» 



fHfREAK, break, break, 
IMIiIO'i thy cold gray stones, O Sea! 






"PJifcUn tny coltl gray stones, \j oca: 
^G^'^And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in ine. 

O well for the fisherman's boy. 

That he shouts with his sister at play! 

O well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 



And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill ; 

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 



Break, break, break. 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 




.v^.l I [j^.^.f?^ I I.W.I I cn.^.f^ I l.^.l I [?n.o'.[Ta I l.^.l I [F^.v^.lTa I l.vl^.l I Cil.v-^.rrJ I l.v-^.r 




THE PRINCESS: A MED LET. 



321 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



PROLOGUE. 




IR WALTER VIVIAN all a summer's day 
Gave his broad lawns until the set of sun 
Up to the peoj^le: thither flock'd at noon 
His tenants, wife and child, and thither half 
The neighboring borough with their Institute 
Of which he was the patron. I was there 
From college, visiting the son, — the son 
Walter too, — with others of our set, 

others: we were seven at Vivian-place. 

nd me that morning Walter showVl the house 
k, set with busts: from vases in the hall 
ers of all heavens, and lovelier than their names, 
ew side by side; and on the pavement lay 
'd stones of the Abbey-ruin in tlie park, 
e AiniTionites, and the first bones of Time; 
And on the tables every clime and age 
Jumbled together; celts and calumets, 
Claymore and snow-shoe, toys in lava, fans 
Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries, 
Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere. 
The curs'd Malayan crease, and battle-clubs 
From the isles of palm: and higher on the walls, 
Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk and deer, 
His own forefathers' arms and armor hung. 



And " this," he saiil, " was Hugh's at Agincourt; 
And that was old Sir Ralph's at Ascalon : 
A good knight he! we keep a chronicle 
With all about him," which he brouglit, and I 
Dived in a hoard of tales that dealt with knights 
Half-legend, half-historic, counts and kings 
Who laid about them at their wills and died; 
And mixt with these, a lady, one that arm'd 
Her own fair head, and sallying thro' the gate, 
Had beat her foes with slaughter from her "valls. 



21 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEi: 



" O miracle of woman," said the book, 
"O noble heart who, being strait-besieg'd 
By this wild king to force her to his wish, 
Nor bent, nor brolce, nor shunn'd a soldier's death, 
But now^ when all was lost or seemVl as lost — 
Her stature more than mortal in the burst 
Of sunrise, her arm lifted, e3'es on fire — 
Brake with a blast of trumpets from the gate, 
Ant), falling on them like a thunderbolt, 
She trampled some beneath her horses' heels. 
And some were whelm'd with missiles of the wall, 
And some were push'd with lances from the rock. 
And part were drown'd within tlie whirling brook: 
O miracle of noble womanhood!" 

So sang the gallant -glorious chronicle; 
And, I all rapt in this, " Come out," he said, 
" To the Abbey: there is Aunt Elizabeth 
And sister Lilia with the rest." We went 
(I kept the book and had my finger in it) 
Down thro' the park: strange was the sight to me; 
For all the sloping pasture murmur'd, sown 
With hajDpy faces and with holiday. 
There moved the multitude, a thousand heads: 
The patient leaders of their Institute 
Taught them with facts. One rear'd a font of stone 
And drew from butts of water on the slope. 
The fountain of the moment, playing now 
A twisted snake, and now a rain of pearls. 
Or steep-up spout whereon the gilded ball 
Danc'd like a wisp: and somewhat lower down, 
A man with knobs and wires and vials fired 
A cannon : Echo answer'd in her sleep 
From hollow fields: and here were telescopes 
For azure views: and there a group of girls 
In circle-waited, whom the electric shock 
Dislink'd with shrieks and laughter: round the lake 
A little clock-work steamer paddling plied 
And shook the lilies; perch'd about the knolls 
A dozen angry models jetted steam : 
A petty railway ran : a fire-balloon 
Rose gem-like up before the dusky groves 
And dropt a i-Mxy parachute and past: 
And there thro' twenty posts of telegraph 
They flash'd a saucy message to and fro 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 323 



Between the mimic stations; so that sport 
Went hand in hand with Science; otherwhere 
Pure sport: a herd of bo3s with clamor bowl'd 
And stump'd the wicket; babies roli'd about 
Like tumbled fruit in grass; and men and maids 
Arrang'd a country dance, and flew thro' light 
And shadow, while the twanglino- violin 
Struck up with Soldier-laddie, and overhead 
The broad ambrosial aisles of loftv lime 
Made noise with bees and breeze from end to end. 

Strange was the sight and smacking of the time; 
And long we gazed, but satiated at length 
Came to the ruins. High-arch'd and ivy-claspt, 
Of finest Gothic lighter than a fire. 
Thro' one wide chasm of time and frost they gave 
The park, the crowd, the house; but all within 
The sward was trim as any garden lawn: 
And here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth, 
And Liiia with the rest, and lady friends 
From neighbor seats: and there was Ralph himself, 
A broken statue propt against the wall, 
As gay as any. Lilia wild with sport. 
Half child, half woman as she was, had wound 
A scarf of orange round the stony helm, 
And robed the shoulders in a rosy silk. 
That made the old warrior from his ivied nook 
Glow like a sunbeam: near his tomb a feast 
Shone, silver-set; about it lay the guests. 
And there we join'd them: then the maiden Aunt 
Took this fair day for text, and from it preach'd 
An universal culture for the crowd. 
And all things great; but we, unworthier, told 
Of college: he had climb'd across the spikes. 
And he had squeez'd himself betwixt the bars. 
And he had breath'd the Proctor's dogs; and one 
Discuss'd his tutor, rough to common men. 
But honeying at the whisper of a lord ; 
And one the Master, as a rogue in grain, 
Veneer'd with sanctimonious theory. 

But while they talk'd, above their heads I saw 
The feudal warrior lady-clad; which brought 
My book to mind: and opening this I read 
Of old .Sir Ralpii a page or two that rano- 



324 THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 

With tilt and tourney; then the tale of her 
That drove her foes with slaughter from her walls, 
And much I prais'd her nobleness, and " Where," 
Ask'd Walter, patting Lilia's head (she la}' 
Beside him) " lives there such a woman now?" 

Quick answer'd Lilia, " There are thousands now 
Such women, but convention beats them down : 
It is but bringing up; no more than that: 
You inen have done it; liow I hate you all! 
Ah! were I something great! I wish I were 
Some mighty poetess, I would shame you then, 
That love to keep us children ! O I wish 
That I were some great princess, I would build 
Far off from men a college like a man's. 
And I would teach them all that men are taught; 
We are twice as quick ! " And here she shook aside 
The hand that plaved the patron with her curls. 

And one said shiiling, " Pretty were the sight 
If our old halls could change their sex, and flaunt 
With prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans. 
And sweet girl-graduates in their golden hair. 
I think thev shoidd not wear our rusty gowns, \ 
But mo\e as rich as Emperor-moths or Ralph 
Who shines so in the corner: yet I fear. 
If there were many Lilias in the brood. 
However deep you might embower the nest 
Some bov would spy it." 

At this upon the swartl 
She tapt her tiny silken-sandal'd foot: 
" That's your light way: but I would make it death 
For anv male thing but to peep at us." 

Petulant she spoke, and at iierself she laugli'd; 
A rose-bud set with little wilful thorns. 
And sweet as English air could make her, she : 
But Walter hail'd a score of names upon her. 
And " petty Ogress," and "ungrateful Puss," 
And swore he long'd at college, onl\- long'd. 
All else was well, for she-society. 
The\' boated and they cricketed; the\' talk'il 
At wine, in clubs, of art, of politics; 
They lost their weeks; they vext the souls of deans; 



THE PRINCESS: A MED LEV. ' 325 

Thev rode; they betted; made a hundred friends, 
And caught the blossom of the flying terms, 
But niiss'd the mignonette of Vivian-place, 
The little hearth-flower Lilia. Thus he spoke, 
Part banter, part affection. 

" True," she said, 
" We doubt not that. O yes, you miss'd us much. 
I'll stake my ruby ring upon it, von did." 

She held it out; and as a parrot turns 
Up thro' gilt wires a crafty loving eye. 
And takes a lady's finger with all care. 
And bites it for true heart and not for harm, 
So he with Lilia's. Daintily she shriek'd 
And wrung it. " Doubt my ^vord again! " he said. 
" Come, listen! here is proof that you were miss'd: 
We seven stay'd at Christmas up to read. 
And there we took one tutor as to read : 
The hard-grain'd Muses of the cube and square 
Were out of season: never man, I think. 
So moulder'd in a sinecure as he: 
For while our cloisters echo'd frosty feet, 
And our long walks were stript as bare as brooms. 
We did but talk you over, pledge you all 
In wassail: often, like as many girls — 
Sick for the hollies and the yews of home — 
As many little trifling Lilias — play'd 
Charades and riddles as at Christmas here. 
And whafs my thought and ivhcn and irhcrc and how. 
And often told a tale from mouth to mouth 
As here at Christmas." 

She remembered that: 
A pleasant game, she thought: she liked it more 
Than magic music, forfeits, all the rest. 
But these — what kind of tales did men tell men. 
She wonder'd, by themselves? 

A half-disdain 
Perch'd on the pouted blossom of her lips: 
And Walter nodded at me; He began. 
The rest would follow, each in turn; and so 
We forg'd a sevenfold story. Kind? what kind? 
Chimeras, crotchets, Christmas solecisms. 
Seven-headed monsters only made to kill 
Time by the fire in winter." 



326 2'HE PRINCESS: A MEDLET. 

" Kill him now, 
The tyrant! kill him in the summer too," 
Said Lilia ; " Wh)' not now," the maiden Aunt. 
« Why not a summer's as a winter's tale? 
A tale for summer as befits the time. 
And something it should be to suit the place, 
Heroic, for a hero lies beneath. 
Grave, solemn ! " 

Walter warjj'd his mouth at this 
To something so mock-solemn, that I laugh'd 
And Lilia woke with sudden-shrilling mirth 
And echo like a ghostly woodpecker. 
Hid in the ruins; till the maiden Aunt 
(A little sense of wrong had touch'd her face 
With color) turn'd to me with " As you will; 
Heroic if vou will, or what you will. 
Or be yourself your hero if you will." 
" Take Lilia, then, for heroine," clamor'd he, 
" And make her some great Princess, six feet high, 
Grand, epic, homicidal; and be 30U 
The Prince to win her!" 

" Then follow me, the Prince," 
I answer'd, "each be hero in his turn! 
Seven and yet one, like shadows in a dream. — 
Heroic seems our Princess as requir'd — 
But something made to suit with time and place, 
A Gothic ruin and a Grecian house, 
A talk of college and of ladies' rights, 
A feudal knight in silken masquerade. 
And, yonder, shrieks and strange experiments 
For which the good Sir Ralph had burnt them all^ 
This were a medley! we should have him back 
Who told the ' Winter's tale ' to do it for us. 
No matter: we will say whatever comes. 
And let the ladies sing us, if thej' will, 
From time to time, some ballad or a song 
To give us breathing-space." 

So I began. 
And the rest follow'd : and the women sang 
Between the rougher voices of the men, 
Like linnets in the pauses of the wind: 
And here I give the story and the songs. 













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W4^^ /.%:'" 1^''; ' '^ - "^f "^^^-^^' 













^'-^-^ 









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"And echo like a ghostly woodpecker." 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLET. 327 



A Prince I was, blue-eyed, and fair in face, 
Of temper amorous, as the first of Mav, 
With lengths of yellow ringlet, like a girl, 
For on my cradle shone the Nortliern star. 

There lived an ancient legend in our house. 
Some sorcerer, whom a far-off grandsire burnt 
Because he cast no shadow, had foretold. 
Dying, that none of all our blood should know 
The shallow from tlie substance, and that one 
Should come to fight with shadows and to fall. 
For so, my mother said, the story ran. 
And, truly, waking dreams were, moie or less, 
An old and strange affection of the house. 
Myself, too, had weird seizures, Heaven knows what: 
On a sudden in the midst of men and day. 
And while I walk'd and talk'd as heretofore, 
I seem'd to move among a world of ghosts, 
And feel myself the shadow of a dream. 
Our great court-Galen pois'd his gilt-head cane. 
And paw'd his beard, and mutter'd " catalepsy." 
My mother pitying, made a thousand prayers; 
M}' mother was as mild as any saint, 
Half-canoniz'd by all that look'd on her. 
So gracious was her tact and tenderness: 
But my good father thought a king a king; 
He cared not for the affection of the house; 
He held his sceptre like a pedant's wand 
To lash offence, and with long arms and hands 
Reach'd out, and pick'd offenders from the mass 
For judgment. 

Now it chanced that I had been, 
While life was yet in bud and blade, betroth'd 
To one, a neighboring Princess: she to me 
Was proxy-wedded with a bootless calf 
At eight years old; and still from time to time 
Came murmurs of her beauty from the South, 
And of her brethren, youths of puissance; 
And still I wore her picture by my heart. 
And one dark tress; and all around them both 
Sweet thoughts would swarm as bees about their queen. 



328 THE PRINCESS: A MEDLET. 

But when the days drew nigh that I should wed, 
My father sent ambassadors with furs 
And jewels, gifts, to fetch her: these brought back 
A present, a great labor of the loom ; 
And therewithal an answer vague as wind: 
Besides, they saw the king; he took the gifts; 
He said there was a compact; that was true: 
But then she had a will; was he to blame? 
And maiden fancies; loved to live alone 
Among her women ; certain, would not wed. 

That morning in the presence room I stood 
With Cyril and with Florian, my two friends: 
The first, a gentleman of broken means 
(His father's fault) but given to starts and bursts 
Of revel; and the last, my other heart, 
And almost my half-self, for still we moved 
Together, twinn'd as horse's ear and eye. 

Now, while they spake, I saw my father's face 
Grow long and troubled like a rising moon, 
Inflam'd with wratii: he started on his feet. 
Tore the king's letter, snow'd it down, and rent 
The wonder of the loom thro' warj^ and woof 
From skirt to skirt; and at the last he sware 
That he would send a hundred thousand men. 
And bring her in a whirlwind: then he chew'd 
The thrice-turn'd cud of wrath, and cook'd his spleen. 
Communing with his captains of the war. 

At last I spoke. "My father, let me go. 
It cannot be but some gross error lies 
In this report, this answer of a king, 
Whom all men rate as kind and hospitable: 
Or, maj'be, I myself, my bride once seen, 
Whate'er my grief to find her less than fame, 
May rue the bargain made." And Florian said: 
" I have a sister at the foreign court. 
Who moves about the Princess; she, you know, 
Who wedded with a nobleman from thence: 
He, dying latel}', left her, as I hear. 
The lad}' of three castles in that land: 
Thro' her this matter might be sifted clean." 
And Cyril whisper'd: "• Take me with you too." 



.^ii^ ^4- ^T"^ ^'^y^ 







'■ High-arch'd and ivv-claspt, 
Of finest Gothic lighter than a fire." 



■^^5 '^JffJVCESS^ A imDLB.r. ^29 



Then laughing " what, if these weird seizures come 
Upon you in those lauds, and no one near 
To point you out the shadow from the truth! 
Take me; I'll serve you hotter in a strait; 
I grate on rusty hinges here: " but " No! " 
Roar'd the rough king, " you shall not; we ourself 
Will crush her pretty maiden fancies dead 
In iron gauntlets: break the council up." 

But when the council broke, I rose and past 
Thro' the wild woods that hung about the town; 
Found a still place, and plnck'd her likeness out; 
Laid it on flowers, and watch'd it lying bathed 
In the green gleam of dewy-tassell'd trees: 
What were those fancies? wherefore break her troth? 
Proud look'd the lips: but while I meditated 
A wind arose and rush'tl upon the South, 
And shook the songs, the whispers, and the shrieks 
Of the wild woods together; and a Voice 
Went with it, « Follow, follow, thou shalt win." 

Then, ere the silver sickle of that month 
Became her golden shield, I stole from court 
With C'}ril and with Florian, unperceiv'd. 
Cat-footed thro' the town, and half in dread 
To hear my father's clamor at our backs 
With Ho! from some bay-window shake the night; 
But all was quiet: from the bastion'd walls. 
Like threaded spiders, one by one, we dropt, 
And flying reach'd the frontier: then we crost 
To a livelier land; and so by tilth and grange. 
And vines, and blowing bosks of wilderness, 
We gain'd the mother-city thick with towers. 
And in the imperial palace found the king. 

His name was Gama; crack'd and small his voice, 
But bland the smile that like a wrinkling wind 
On glassy water drove his cheek in lines; 
A little dry old man, witiiout a star, 
Not like a king: three days he feasted us, 
And on Ihe fourth I spake of why we came. 
And my betroth'd. " You do us, Prince," he said, 
Airing a snowy hand and signet gem, 
" All honor. We remember love ourselves 



330 THE PRIXCESS: A MEDLEY. 

In oui" sweet \oiith: there did a compact pass 

Long summers back, a kind of ceremony — 

I think the year in which our olives fail'd. 

I would vou had her, Prince, with all my heart, 

With mv full heart: but there were widows here 

Two \vidows, lady Psyche, lady Blanche, 

They fed her theories, in and out of place 

Maintaining- that with equal husbandry 

The woman were an equal to the man. 

They harp'd on this; with this our banquets rang; 

Our dances broke and buzz'd in knots of talk; 

Nothing but this ; my very ears were hot 

To hear them: knowledge, so my daughter held, 

Was all in all; they had but been, she thought, 

As children; they must lose the child, assume 

The woman: then. Sir, awful otles she wrote, 

Too awful, sure, for what they tieated of. 

But all she is and does is awful; odes 

About this losing of the child; and rhymes 

And dismal lyrics, prophesying change 

Beyond all reason: these the women sang; 

And they that know such things — I sought but peace; 

No critic I — would call them masterpieces; 

Thev master'd me. At last she begg'd a boon 

A certain summer-palace which I have 

Hard by j'our father's frontier: I said no. 

Yet being an easy man, gave it; and there, 

All wild to found a University 

For maidens, on the spur she fled; and more 

We know not, — only this; they see no men. 

Not ev'n her brother Arac, nor the twins 

Her brethren, tho' they love her, look upon her 

As on a kind of paragon ; and I 

(Pardon me saying it) were much loathe to breed 

Dispute betwixt myself and mine; but since 

(And I confess with light) you think me bound 

In some sort, I can give you letters to her; 

And yet, to speak the truth, I rate your chance 

Almost at naked nothing." 

Thus the king; 
And I, tho' nettled that he seem'd to slur 
With garrulous ease and oily courtesies 
Our formal compact, yet, not less (all frets 
But chafing me on fire to find my bride) 
Went forth again with both my friends. We rode 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 331 



Many a lout,' league back to the north. At last 
From hills, that look'd across a land of hope, 
\\ e (Iropt with evening on a rustic town 
Set in a gleaming rixer's crescent-cur\-e, 
Close at the boundary of the liberties; 
There enter'd an old hostel, call'd mine host 
To council, jilicd him witli his richest wines, 
And show'd the late-writ letters of the king. 

He with a long low sibilation, stared 
As blank as death in marble; then exclaim'd 

Averring it was clear against all rules 
For any man to go: but as his brain 
Began to mellow, " If the king," he said, 

" Had given us letters, was he bound to speak? 

The king would bear iiiin out;" and at the last 

The summer of the vine in all his veins — 

" No doubt that he might make it worth his while. 

She once had past that way; he heard her speak; 

She scared him; life! he never saw the like; 

She look'd as grand as doomsday and as grave: 

And he, he reverenc'd his liege-lady there; 

He always made a jjoint to post with mares; 
His daughter and his housemaid were the boys: 

The land, he understood, for miles about 

Was till'd by women; all the swine were sows. 

And all the dogs"— 

But while he jested thus, 
A thought flash'd thro' me which I cloth'tl in act, 
Remembering how we three presented Maid 
Or Nymph, or Goddess, at high tide of feast, 
In masque or pageant at my father's court. 
We sent mine host to purchase female gear; 
He brought it, and himself, a sight to shake 
The midriff of despair with laughter, holp 
To lace us up, till, each, in maiden plumes 
We rustled: him we gave a costly bribe 
To guerdon silence, mounted our good steeds. 
And boldly ventured on the liberties. 

We follow'd up the river as we rode. 
And rode till midnight when the college lights 
Began to glitter fiiefly-like in copse 
And linden alley: then we past an arch, 



'dci2 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEi'. 



Whereon :i woman-statue rose with wings 

From four-wing-'d horses dark against the stars; 

And some inscription ran along the front, 

Bnt deep in sliadow : further on we gain'd 

A little street, half gakien and half house; 

But scarce could hear each other speak for noise 

Of clocks and chimes, like silver hammers falling 

On silver anvils, and the splash and stir 

Of fountains spouted up and showering down 

In meshes of the jasmine and the rose; 






>>^ 




And all about us peal'd the nightingale, 
Rapt in her song, and careless of the snare. 



There stood a bust of Pallas for a sign. 
By two sphere lamps blazon'd like Heaven and Earth 
With constellation and with continent, 
Above an entry: riding in, we call'd; 
A plump-arm'd Ostleress, and a stable wench 
Came running at the call, and help'd us down. 
Then stept a buxom hostess forth, and sail'd. 
Full blown, before us into rooms which gave 
Upon a pillar'd porch, the bases lost 
In laurel : her we ask'd of that and this. 
And who were tutors. " Lady Blanche," she faid, 
" And Lady Psyche." " Which was prettiest, 
Best natured?" " Lady Psyche." " Hers are we," 
One voice, we cried; and I sat down and wrote. 
In such a hand as when a field of corn 
Bows all its ears before the roaring East: 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 33S 



" Three hulies of the Northern empire pray 
Your Highness would enroll them with your own, 
As Lady Psyche's pupils." 

This I seal'd : 
The seal was Cupid bent above a scroll, 
And o'er his head Uranian Venus hung, 
And rais'd the blinding bandage from his eyes: 
I gave the letter to be sent with dawn: 
And then to bed, where half in doze I seem'd 
To float about a glimmering night, and watch 
A full sea glazed with muffled moonlight, swell 
On some dark shore just seen that it was rich. 



As through the land at eve we went, 

And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, 
We fell out, m_v wife and I, 
O we fell out I know not whv, 
And kiss'd again with tears. 

And blessings on tiie falling out 

That all the more endears, 
When we fall out with those we love 

And kiss again with tears ! 

For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years, 
There above the little grave, 
O there above the little grave, 

We kiss'd again with tears. 



At break of day the College Portress came: 

She brought us Academic silks, in hue 

The lilac, with a silken iiood to each. 

And zoned with gokl; and now when these were on» 

And we as rich as moths from dusk cocoons, 

She, curtseying her obeisance, iet us know 

The Princess Ida waited: out we paced, 

I first, and following thro' the porch that sang 

All round with laurel, issued in a court 

Compact of lucid marbles, boss'd with lengths 

Ot classic frieze, with ample awnings gay 

Betwixt the pillars, and with great urns of flowers. 

The Muses and tiie Graces, group'd in threes, 



334 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



Enring'd a billowing fountain in the midst; 
And here and there on lattice edges lay 
Or book or hite; but hastily we past, 
And up a flight of stairs into the hall. 

There at a board by tome and paper sat, 
With two tame leopards couch'd beside her throne, 
All beauty compass'd in a female form, 
The Princess; liker to the inhabitant 
Of some clear planet close upon the sun, 
Than our man's earth; such eyes were in her head, 
And so much grace and power, breathing down 
Froin over her arch'd brows, with every turn 
Lived thro' her to the tips of her long hands. 
And to her feet. She rose her height, and said : 

" We give you welcome: not without redound 
Of use and glorv to yourselves ye come. 
The first fruits of the stianger: aftertime, 
And that full voice \vhich circles round the grave, 
Will rank 3'ou nobly, mingled up with me. 
What! are the ladies of your land so tall? " 
" We of the court," said Cyril. " From the court," 
She answer'd, " then ye know the Prince?" and he: 
"The climax of his age! as the' there were 
One rose in all the world, your Highness that. 
He worships vour ideal." She replied: 
"We scarcely thought in our own hall to hear 
This barren verbiage, current among men. 
Like coin, the tinsel clink of compliment. 
Your flight from out your bookless wilds would seem 
As arguing love of knowledge and of power; 
Your language proves you still the child. Indeed, 
We dream not of him : when we set our hand 
To this great work, we purpos'd with ourself 
Never to wed. You likewise will do well. 
Ladies, in entering here, to cast and fling 
The tricks, which make us toys of men, that so. 
Some future time, if so indeed you will. 
You may with those self-styled our lords ally 
Your fortunes, justlier balanc'd, scale with scale." 

At those high words, we, conscious of ourselves, 
Perus'd the matting; then an officer 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLET. 



335 



Rose up, and read the statutes, such as these: 

Not for three years to correspond with home; 

Not for three years to cross the liberties: 

Not for three years to speak with any men; 

And many more, which hastily subscribed,' 

We enter'd on the boards; and "Now," she cried, 

"Ye are green wood, see ye warp not. Look, our halU 

Our statues!_not of "those that men desire, 

Sleek Odalisques, or oracles of mode. 

Nor stunted squaws of West or East': but she 

That taught the Sabine how to rule, and she 

The foundress of the Babylonian wall. 

The Carian Artemisia strong in war, 

The Rhodope, tiiat built the pyramid, 

Clelia, Cornelia, with the Palmyrene 

That fouglit Aurclian, and tlie Roman brows 

Of Agrippina. Dwell with these and lose 

Convention, since to look on noble forms 

Makes noble thro' the sensuous organism 

That which is higher. O lift your natuies up: 

Embrace our aims: work out your freedom. Girls, 

Knowledge is now no more a fountain seal'd: 

Drink deep, until the habits of tlie slave. 

The sins of emptiness, gossip and spite ' 

And slander, die. Better not be at all 

Than not be noble. Leave us: you may go: 

To-day the Lady Psyche will harangue 

The fresh arrivals of the week before; 

For they press in from all the provinces, 

And fill the hive." 

She spoke, and bowing waved 
Dismissal : back again we crost the court 
To Lady Psyche's: as we enter'd in. 
There sat along the forms, like morning doves 
That sun their milky bosoms on the thatch, 
A patient range of pupils; she herself 
Erect behind a desk of satin-wood, 
A quick brunette, well-moulded, falcon-eyed, 
And on the hither side, or so she look'd. 
Of twenty summers. At her left, a child, 
In shining draperies, headed like a star. 
Her maiden babe, a double April old, 
Aglaia slept. We sat: the Lady glanc'd: 
Tlien Florian, but no livelier than "the dame 



336 THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



That whisper'd " Asses' ears" among the sedge, 
" My sister." " Comely, too, by all that's fan," 
Said Cyril. ' " O hush, hush!" and she began. 

" This world was once a fluid haze of light, 
Till toward the centre set the starry tides, 
And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast 
The planets: then the monster, then the man; 
Tattoo'd or woaded, winter-clad in skins, 
Raw from the prime, and crushing down his mate; 
As yet we find in barbarous isles, and here 
Among the lowest." 

Thereupon she took 
A bird's eye view of all the ungracious past; 
Glanc'd at the legendary Amazon 
As emblematic of a nobler age; 
Apprais'd the Lycian custom, spoke of those 
That lay at wine with Lar and Lucumo; 
Ran down the Persian, Grecian, Roman lines 
Of empire, and the woman's state in eacii, 
How far from just; till, warming with her theme, 
She fulmin'd out her scorn of laws Salique 
And little-footed China, touch'd on Mahomet 
With much contempt, and came to chivalry: 
When some respect, however slight, was paid 
To woman, superstition all awry : 
However then commeiic'd the dawn: a beam 
Had slanted forward, falling in a land 
Of promise; fruit would follow. Deep, indeed. 
Their debt of thanks to her who first had dared 
To leap the rotten pales of prejudice, 
Disyoke their necks from custom, and assert 
None lordlier than themselves but that which made 
Woman and man. She had founded; they must build 
Here might they learn whatever men were taught: 
Let them not fear: some said their heads were less: 
Some men's were small; not they the least of men; 
For often fineness conipensated size: 
Besides the brain was like the hand, and gi'ew 
With using; thence the man's, if more, was more; 
He took advantage of his strength to be 
First in the field: some ages had been lost; 
But woman ripen'd earlier, and her life 
Was longer; and albeit their gloiious names 
Were fewer, scatter'd stars, yet since in truth 




"Thro' the wild woods that hung about the town." 

See ^age j2g. 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEJ-. 337 

The highest is the measure of the ir.an, 

And not the Kaffir, Hottentot, Malay, 

Nor those horn-handed breakers of the glebe. 

But Homer, Plato, Verulam ; even so 

With woman: and in arts of government 

Elizabeth and others; arts of war 

Tiie peasant Joan and others: arts of grace 

Sappho and others vied with any nian: 

And, last not least, she who had left her place, 

And bow'd her state to them, that they might grOgV 

To use and power on this Oasis, lapt 

In the arms of leisure, sacred from the blight 

Of ancient influence and scorn? 

At last 
She rose upon a ■wind of prophecy 
Dilating on the future; " ev-erywhere 
Two heads in council, two beside the hearth, 
Two in the tangled business of the world. 
Two in the liberal offices of life. 
Two plummets dropt for one to sound the abyss 
Of science, and the secrets of the mind: 
Musician, painter, sculptor, critic, more: 
And everywhere the broad and bounteous earth 
Should bear a double growth of those rare souls. 
Poets, whose thoughts enrich the blood of the world." 

She ended here, and beckon'd us: the rest 
Parted; and, glowing full-feced welcome, she 
Began to address us, and was moving on 



»S 




In gratulation, till as when a boat 
Tacks, and the slacken'd sail flaps, all her voice 
2^ 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEr. 



Faltering and fluttering in her throat, she cried, • 

" My brothel-! " " Well, my sister." " O, " she said, 

"What do you here? and in this dress? and these? 

Why who are these? a wolf within the fold! 

A pack of wolves! the Lord be gracious to me! 

A plot, a plot, a plot to ruin all! " 

"No plot, no plot," he answer'd. "Wretched boy, 

How saw you not the inscription on the gate, 

Let no man enter in on pain of death? " 

" And if I had," he answer'd, " who could think 

The softer Adams of your Academe, 

O sister. Sirens tho' they be, were such 

As chanted on the blanching bones of men?" 

" But you will find it otherwise," she said. 

" You jest: ill jesting with edge-tools! my vow 

Binds me to speak, and O that iron will. 

That axelike edge unturnable, our Head, 

The Princess." " Well then. Psyche, take my life, 

And nail me like a weasel on a grange 

For warning: bury me beside the gate. 

And cut this epitaph above my bones; 

Here lies a brother hy a sister slain. 

All for the common good of iromankind^'' 

" Let me die too," said Cyril, "ha\ing seen 

And heard the Lady Psyche." 

I struck in : 
" Albeit so mask'd. Madam, I love the truth; 
Receive it; and in me behold the Prince 
Your countrvman, aftianc'd years ago 
To the Lady Ida: here, for here she was. 
And thus (what other way was left?) I came." 
" O Sir, O Prince, I have no country; none; 
If anv, this; but none. Whate'er I was 
Disrooted, what I am is grafted here. 
Affianc'd, Sir? love-whispers may not breathe 
Within this vestal limit, and how should I, 
Who am not mine, say, live: the thunderbolt 
Hangs silent; but prepare: I speak; it falls." 
"Yet pause," I said: "for that inscription there, 
I think no more of deadly lurks therein. 
Than in a clapper clapping in a garth, 
To scare the fowl from fruit: if more there be, 
If more and acted on, what follows? war; 
Your own work marr'd: for this your Academe, 
Whichever side be Victor, in the halloo 



THE PRINCESS: A MED LET. 339 

Will topple to the trumpet ilown, and pass 
With all fair theories only made to gild 
A stormless summer." " Let the Princess judge 
Of that," she said : " farewell, Sir — and to you. 
I shudder at the sequel, hut I go." 

" Are you that Lady Psyche," I rejoin'd, 
" The fifth in line from that old Florian, 
Yet hangs his portrait in my father's hall 
(The gaunt old baron with his beetle brow 
Sun-shaded in the heat of dusty fights) 
As he bestrode my Grandsire, when he fell, 
And all else fled : we point to it, and we say. 
The loyal warmth of Florian is not cold, 
But branches current yet in kindred veins." 

" Are you that Psyche," Florian added, " she 
With whom I sang about the morning hills. 
Flung ball, flew kite, and raced the purple fly. 
And snared the squirrel of the glen ? are you 
That Psyche, wont to bind mv throbbing brow. 
To smooth my pillow, mix the foaming draught 
Of fever, tell me pleasant tales, and read 
Mv sickness down to happy dreams? are you 
That brother-sister Psyche, both in one? 
You were that Psyche, but what are )'ou now? " 

" You arc that Psyche," Cyril said, " for whom 
I would be that forever which I seem. 
Woman, if I might sit beside your feet. 
And glean your scatter'd sapience." 

Then once more, 
" Are you that Lady Psyche," I began, 
" That on her bridal morn before she past 
From all her old companions, when the king 
Kiss'd her pale cheek, declar'd that ancient ties 
Would still be dear beyond the southern hills; 
That were there any of our people there 
In want or peril, there was one to hear 
And help them: look! for such are these and I." 

" Are you that Psyche," Florian ask'd, " to whom, 
In gentler days, your arrow-wounded fawn 



340 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLET. 




Came flying while you sat beside the \vell? 

The creature laid his muzzle on your lap, 

And sobb'd, and you sobb'd with it, and the blood 

Was sprinkled on your kirtle, and 3'ou wept. 

That \vas fawn's blood, not brother's, vet vou wept. 

O by the bright head of mv little niece. 

You were that Psyche, and what are \-ou now?" 

" You are that Psyche," C\ril said again, 

" The mother of the sweetest little maid, 

That ever crow'd for kisses." 

"Out upon it!" 
She answer'd, "peace! ami why should I not play 
The Spartan Mother with emotion, be 
The Lucius Junius Brutus of my kind? 
Him you call great; he for the connnon weal. 
The fading politics of mortal Rome, 



THE PRINCESS: A MED LET. 341 



As I might slay this child, if good need were, 
_ Slew both his sons; and I, shall I, on whom 
The secular emancipation tnrns 
Of half this world, be swerved from right to save 
A prince, a brother? a little will I yield. 
Best so, perchance, for us, and well for you. 
O hard, when love and duty clash! I fear 

My conscience will not count me fleckless; vet 

Hear my conditions: promise (otherwise 

You perish) as you came to slip away. 

To-day, to-morrow, soon : it shall be said, 

These women were too barbarous, would not learn; 

They fled, who might have shamed us: promise, all." 

What could we else, we promised each; and she, 
Like some wild creatuie newly caged, commenc'd 
A to-and-fro, so pacing till she paus'd 
By Florian: holding out her lily arms 
Took both his hands, and smiling faintly said, 
" I knew you at the first; tho' you have grown 
You scarce have alter'd: I am sad and glad 
To see thee, Florian. / give- thee to death. 
My brother! it was duty spoke, not I. 
My needful seeming harshness, pardon it. 
Our mother, is she well? " 

With that she kiss'd 
His forehead, then, a moment after, clung 
About him, and betwixt them blossom'd up 
From out a common vein of memory 
Sweet household talk, and phrases of the hearth, 
And far allusion, till the gracious dews 
Began to glisten and to fall: and while 
They stood, so rapt, we gazing, came a voice, 
" I brought a jnessage here from Lady Blanche." 

Back started she, and turning round we saw 
The Lady Blanche's daughter where she stood^ 
Melissa, with her hand upon the lock. 
A rosy blonde, and in a college gown, 
That clad her like an April daffodilly 
(Her mother's color) with her lips apart. 
And all her thoughts as fair within her eyes, 
As bottom agates seem to wave and float 
In crystal currents of clear morning seas. 



342 THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 

So stood that same fair creature at the door. 
Then Lady Psyche, "Ah — Melissa — you! 
You heard us?" and Melissa, "O pardon me! 
I heard, I could not help it, did not wish: 
But dearest Lady, pray you fear me not. 
Nor think I bear that heart within mv breast, 
To give three gallant gentlemen to death." 
" I trust you," said the other, "for we two 
Were always friends, none closer, elm and vine: 
But 3'et your mother's jealous temperament — 
Let not your prudence, dearest, drowse, or prove 
The Danaid of a leaky vase, for fear 
This whole foundation ruin, and I lose 
My honor, these their lives." " Ah, fear me not," 
Replied Melissa; "no — I would not tell. 
No, not for all Aspasia's cleverness, 
No, not to answer. Madam, all those hard things 
That Slieba came to ask of Solomon." 
" Be it so," the other, " that we still may lead 
The new light up, and culminate in peace, 
For Soloinon may come vo Sheba yet." 
Said Cyril, " Madam, he the wisest man 
Feasted the woman wisest then, in halls 
Of Lebanonian cedar: nor should you 
(The' Madam j)'o« should answer, we would ask) 
Less welcome find among us, if you came 
Among us, debtors for our Lives to you. 
Myself for something more." He said not what. 
But " Thanks," she answer'd, " go: we have been too long 
Together: keep your hoods about the face; 
They do so that affect abstraction here. 
Speak little; mix not with the rest; and hold 
Your promise: all, I trust, may yet be well." 

We turn'd to go, but Cyril took the child, 
And held her round the knees against his waist. 
And blew the swoll'n cheek of a trumpeter. 
While Psyche watch'd them, smiling, and the child 
Push'd her flat hand against his face and laugh'd; 
And thus our conference clos'd. 

And then we strolled 
For half the day thro' stately theatres 
Beuch'd crescent-wise. In each we sat, we heard 
The grave Professor. On the lecture slate 
The circle rounded under female hands 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLET. 343 

With flawless demonstration; follow'd then 

A classic lecture, rich in sentiment, 

With scraps of thunderous Epic lilted out 

By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies 

And quoted odes, and jewels five-words-long 

That on the strctch'd forefinger of all Time 

Sparkle forever: then we dipt in all 

That treats of whatsoever is, the state. 

The total chronicles of man, tlie mind, 

The morals, something of the frame, the rock, 

The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, the flower, 

Electric, cliemic laws, and all the rest, 

And whatsoever can be taught and known; 

Till like three horses that have bioken fence. 

And glutted all night long bieast-deep in corn, 

We issued gorged with knowledge, and I spoke: 

" Why sirs, they do all this as v/ell as we." 

"They hunt old trails," said Cyril, " very well; 

But when did woman ever yet invent?" 

" Ungracious!" answer'd Florian, " have you learnt 

No more from Psyche's lecture, you thattalk'd 

The trash that made me sick, and almost sad?" 

" O trash," he said, " but with a kernel in it. 

Should I not call her wise, who matle me wise? 

And learnt? I learnt more from lier in a flash, 

Than if my brainpan were an empty hull. 

And every Muse tumbled a science in. 

A thousand hearts lie fallow in these halls. 

And round these halls a thousand baby loves 

Fly twanging heaiUess arrows at tiie hearts, 

Whence follows many a vacant pang; but O 

With me. Sir, enter'd in the bigger boy, 

The Head of all the golden-shafted firm. 

The long limb'd lac! that had a Psvchc too; 

He cleft me through the stomacher: and now 

What think you of it, Florian? Do I chase 

The substance or the shadow? will it hold? 

I have no sorcerer's malison on me. 

No ghostly hauntings like his Highness. I 

Flatter myself that always everywhere 

I know the substance when I see it. Well, 

Are castles shadows? Three of them? Is she 

The sweet proprietress a shadow? If not, 

Shall those three castles patch mj' tatter'd coat? 

For dear are those three castles to my wants, 



344 THE PRINCESS: A MED LET. 

And dear is sister Psyche to my heart, 
And two dear things are one of double worth. 
And much I might have said, but that m)' zone 
Unmann'd me: then the Doctors! O to hear 
The Doctors! O to watch the thirsty plants 
Imbibing! once or twice I thought to roar. 
To break my chain, to shake my mane: but thou, 
Modulate me, Soul of mincing mimicry! 
Make liquid treble of that bassoon, my throat 
Abase those eyes that ever loved to meet 
Star-sisters answering under crescent brows; 
Abate the stride, which speaks of man, and loose 
A flying charm of blushes o'er this cheek. 
Where they like swallows coming out of time 
Will wonder why they came; but hark the bell 
For dinner, let us go! " 

And in we stream'd 
Among the columns, pacing staid and still 
By twos and threes, till all from end to end 
With beauties every shade of brown and fair. 
In colors gayer than the morning mist, 
The long hall glitter'd like a bed of floweis. 
How might a man not wander from his wits 
Pierc'd thro' with eyes, but that I kept mine own 
Intent on her, who rapt in glorious dreams. 
The second-sight of some Astraean age. 
Sat compass'd with professors; they, the while, 
Discuss'd a doubt and tost it to and fro: 
A clamor thicken'd, mixt with inmost terms 
Of art and science: Lady Blanche alone 
Of faded form and haughtiest lineaments. 
With all her autumn tresses falsely brown, 
Shot sidelong daggers at us, a tiger-cat 
In act to spring. 

At last a solemn grace 
Concluded, and we sought the gardens: there 
One walk'd reciting by herself, and one 
In this hand held a volume as to read. 
And smooth'd a peacock down witii that: 
Some to a low song oar'd a shallop by, 
Or under arches of the marble bridge 
Hung, shado'w'd from the heat: some hid and sought 
In the orange thickets: others tost a ball 
Above the fountain-jets, and back again 
With laughter; others lay about the lawns. 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEl'. 345 

Of the older sort, and nuinmir'd that their May 

Was passing: what was learning unto them? 

They wish'd to marrj-; thev could rule a house; 

Men iiated learned women : but we three 

Sat muffled like the Fates; and often came 

Melissa hitting- all we saw with shafts 

Of gentle satire, kin to charity. 

That harm'd not: then day droopt; the chapel bells 

Call'd us: we left the walks; we mixt with those 

Six hundred maidens clad in purest white. 

Before two streams of light from wall to wall, 

While the great organ almost burst his pipes, 

Groaning for power, and rolling tliro' the court 

A long melodious thunder to the sound 

Of solemn psalms, and silver litanies. 

The work of Ida, to call down from Heaven 

A blessing on her labors for the world. 



Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea, 
Low, low, breathe and blow. 

Wind of the western sea! 
Over the rolling waters go, 
Come from the dying moon, and blow. 

Blow him again to me; 
While mv Utile one, while my pretty one, sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Rest, rest, on mother's breast, 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Father will come to his babe in the nest, 
Silver sails all out of the west 

Under the silver moon: 
Sleep, my little one, sleep my pretty one, sleep. 



III. 



Morn in the white wake of the morning star 
Came furrowing all the orient into gold. 
We rose, and each by other drest with care 
Descended to the court that lay three parts 
In shadow, but the Muses' heads were touch'd 
Above the darkness from their native East. 



346 THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 

There while we stood beside the fount and watch'd 
Or seem'd to watch the dancing bubble, approach'd 
Melissa, tinged with wan from lack of sleep, 
Or grief, and glowing round her dewv eyes 
The circled Iris of a night of tears; 
" And fly," she cried, " O fly, while yet 3'ou may! 
My mother knows: " and when I ask'd her how, 
" My fault," she wept, " my fault! and yet not mine; 
Yet mine in part. O hear me, pardon me. 
My mother, 'tis her wont from night to night 
To rail at Lady Psyche and her side. 
She says tl)e Princess should Jiave been the Head, 
Herself and Lady Psyche the two arms; 
And so it was agreed when first they came; 
But Lady Psyche was the right hand now. 
And she the left, or not, or seldom used ; 
Hers more than half the students, all the love, 
And so last night she fell to canvass you : 

" Her countrywomen! she did not envj' her. 
Who ever saw such wild barbarians.' 
Girls? — more like men!" and at these words the snake, 
My secret, seem'd to stir within my breast; 
And O, Sirs, could I help it, but my cheek 
Began to burn and burn, and her lynx eye 
To fix and make me hotter, till she iaugh'd : 
" O marvellously modest maiden, you ! 
Men! girls, like men! why, if they had been men 
You need not st?t your thoughts in rubric thus 
For wholesome comment." Pardon, I am shamed 
That I must needs repeat for m}' excuse 
What looks so little graceful; " men" (for still 
My mother went revolving on the word) 
" And so they are, — very like men indeed — 
And with that woman closeted for hours!" 
Then came these dreadful words out one by one, 
" Why — these — are — men: " I shudder'd: " and you know it." 
" O ask me nothing," I said: " And she knows too. 
And she conceals it." So my mother clutch'd 
The truth at once, but with no word from me; 
And now thus early risen she goes to inform 
The Princess: Lady Psyche will be crush'd; 
But you may j'et be saved, and therefore fly: 
But heal me with your pardon ere you go." 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 347 



" What paidon, sweet Melissa, for a blush? " 
Said Cyril: " Pale one, blusli again : than wear 
Those lilies, better blush our lives away. 
Yet let us breathe for one hour more in Heaven." 
He added, " lest some classic Angel speak 
In scorn of us, ' They mounted, Ganymcdes, 
To tumble, Vulcans, on the second morn.' 
But I will melt this marble into wax 
To yield us farther furlough: " and he went, 

Melissa shook her doubtful curls, and thouglit 
He scarce would prosper. "Tell us," Florian ask'd, 
" How grew this feud betwixt the right and left." 
" O long ago," she said, " betwixt these two 
Division smoulders hidden: 'tis my mother, 
Too jealous, often fretful as the wind 
Pent in a crevice: much I bear with her: 
I never knew my father, but she says 
(God help her) she was wedded to a fool; 
And still she rail'd against the state of things. 
She had the care of Lady Ida's youth. 
And fi'om the Queen's decease she brought lier up. 
But when your sister came she won the heart 
Of Ida: they were still together, grew 
(For so they said themselves) inosculated; 
Consonant chords that shiver to one note; 
One mind in all things: yet my mother still 
Affirms your Psyche thieved her theories, 
And angled with them for her pupil's love: 
She calls her plagiarist; I know not what: 
But I must go: I dare not tarry," and light, 
As flies the shadow of a bird, she fled. 

Then mvirmui"'d Florian, gazing after her: 
" An open-hearted maiden, true and pure. 
If I could love, why this were she : how pretty 
Her blushing was, and how she blush'd again, 
As if to close with Cyril's landom wish: 
Not like your Princess cramm'd with erring pride, 
Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags in tow." 

" The crane," I said, " may chatter of the crane, 
The dove may murmur of the dove, but I 
An eagle clang an eagle to the sphere. 



34? THE PRINCESS: A MEDLET. 

My princess, O my princess! true she errs, 

But ill her own grand way; being herself 

Three limes more noble than three score of men, 

She sees herself in every woman else. 

And so she wears her en-or like a crown 

To blind the truth and me: foi- her, and her, 

Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, mix 

The nectar; but — ah she — whene'er she moves 

The Samian Here rises and she speaks 

A Memnon smitten with the morning sun."' 

So saying, from the court vvc paced, and gain'd 
The terrace rang'd along the Northern front. 
And leaning there on those balusters, high 
Above the empurpled champaign, drank the gale 
That blown about the foliage underneath, 
And sated with the innumerable rose, 
Beat balm upon our eyelids. 

Hither came 
Cyril, and yawning "O hard task," he cried: 
" No fighting shadows here! I forced a way 
Thro' solid opposition crabb'd and gnarl'd. 
Better to clear prime forests, heave and thump 
A league of street in summer solstice down. 
Than hammer at this reverend gentlewoman. 
I knock'd and, bidden, enter'd; found her there 
At point to move, and settled in her eyes 
The green malignant light of coming storm. 
Sir, I was courteous, every phrase well-oil'd, 
As man's could be: yet maiden-meek I pray'd 
Concealment: she demanded who we were. 
And why we came? I fabled nothing fair, 
But, your example pilot, told her all. 
Up went the hush'd amaze of hand and eye. 
But when I dwelt upon your old affiance. 
She answer'd sharply that I talk'd astray. 
I urg'd the fierce inscription on the gate, 
And our three lives. True — \ve had limed ourselves. 
With open eyes, and we must take the chance. 
But such extremes, I told her, well might harm 
The woman's cause. ' Not more than now,' she said, 
' So puddled as it is with favoritism.' 
I tried the mother's heart. Shame might befall 
Melissa, knowing, saying not she knew : 
Her answer was ' Leave me to deal with that.' 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. b49 

I spoke of war to come and many deaths, 

And she replied, her duty was to speak, 

And duty duty, clear of consequences. 

I grew discourag'd. Sir, but since I knew 

No rock so hard but that a little wave 

May beat admission in a thousand years, 

I recommenc'd: ' Decide not ere you pause 

I find you here but in the second place, 

Some saj- the third — the authentic foundress you. 

I offer boldly; we will seat you highest: 

Wink at our advent: help my prince to gain 

His rightful bride, and here I promise you 

Some palace in our land, where you shall reign 

The head and heart of all our f:iir she-world. 

And your great name flow on with broadening time 

Forever.' Well, she balanc'd this a little. 

And told me she would answer us to-day, 

Meantime be mute: thus much, nor more I gain'd." 

He ceasing, came a message from the Head. 
"That afternoon the Princess rode to take 
The dip of certain strata to the North. 
Would we go with her.? we shouKi find the land 
Worth seeing; and the river made a fall 
Out yonder;" then she pointed on to where 
A double hill ran up his furrowv forks 
Beyontl the thick-leav'd platans of the vale. 

Agreed to this, the day fled on thro' all 
Its range of duties to the appointed hour. 
Then summon'd to the porch we went. She stood 
Among her maidens, higher by the head. 
Her back against a pillar, her foot on one 
Of those tame leopards. Kitttenlike he roli'd 
And paw'd about her sandal. I drew near: 
I gazed. On a sudden my strange seizure came 
Upon me, the weird vision of our house: 
The Princess Ida seem'd a hollow show. 
Her gaj'-furr'd cats a painted fantasy. 
Her college and her maidens empty masks. 
And I myself the shadow of a dream. 
For all things were and were not. Yet I felt 
My heart beat thick with passion and with awe; 
Then from my breast the involuntary sigh 



350 THE PRINCESS: A MED LET. 



Brake, as she smote me with the light of eyes 
Th;it lent my knee desire to kneel, and shook 
My pulse.'i, till to horse we got, and so 
Went forth in long retinue following up 
The river as it narrow'd to the hills. 

I rode beside her and to me she said : 
" O friend, we trust that you esteem'd us not 
Too harsh to your companion yestermorn ; 
Unwillingly we spake." " No — not to her," 
I answer'd, " but to one of whom we spake 
Your Highness might have seem'd the thing you sa}'." 
" Again? " she cried, " are you ambassadresses 
From him to me? we give you, being strange, 
A license: speak, and let the topic die." 

I stammer'd that I knew him — could have wish'd — 
" Our king expects — was there no precontract? 
There is no truer-hearted — ah, you seein 
All he prefigured, and he could not see 
The bird of passage flying south but long'd 
To follow: surely, if your Highness keep 
Your purport, you will shock him ev'n to death, 
Or baser courses, children of despair." 

" Poor bov," she said, " can he not read — no books? 
Quoit, tennis, ball — no games? nor deals in that 
Which men delight in, martial exercise? 
To nurse a blind ideal like a girl, 
Methinks he seems no better than a girl; 
As girls were once, as we ourself have been: 
We had our dreams; perhaps he mixt with them: 
We touch on our dead self, nor shun to do it, 
Being other — since we learnt our meaning here, 
To lift the woman's fall'n divinity, 
Upon an even pedestal with man." 

She paus'd, and added with a haughtier smile: 
" And as to precontracts, we move, my friend. 
At no man's beck, but know ourself and thee, 
O Vashti, noble Vashti! Summon'd out 
She kept her state, and left the drunken king 
To brawl at Shushan underneath the palms." 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 351 

"Alas 3'our Highness breathes full East," I said, 
"On that which leans to you. I know the Prince, 
I prize his truth: and then how vast a work 
To assail this gray pre-eminence of man! 
You grant me license; might I use it? think. 
Ere half be done perchance your life may fail: 
Then comes the feebler heiress of your plan. 
And takes and ruins-all; and thus your pains 
May only make that footprint upon sand 
Which old recurring waves of prejudice 
Resmooth to nothing: might I dread that you, 
With only Fame for spouse and your great deeds 
For issue, yet may live in vain, and miss. 
Meanwhile, what every woman counts her due, 
Love, children, happiness.'" 

And she exclaim'd, 
"Peace, )'ou young savage of the Northern wild! 
What! tho' your Prince's love were like a God's, 
Have we not made ourself the sacrifice.'' 
You are bold indeed: we are not talk'd to thus: 
Yet will we say for children, would they grew 
Like field-flowers everywhere! we like them well: 
But children die; and let me tell you, girl, 
Howe'er you babble, great deeds cannot die; 
They with the sun and moon renew their lio-ht 
Forever, blessing those that look on them. 
Children — that men may pluck them from our hearts. 
Kill us with pity, break us with oui-selves — 
O — children — there is nothing upon earth 
More miserable than she that has a son 
And sees him err:- nor would we work for fame; 
Tho' she perhaps might reap the applause of Great, 
Who learns the one pou sto whence after-hands 
May move the world, tho' she herself effect 
But little: wherefore up and act, nor shrink 
For fear our solid aim be dissipated 
By frail successors. Would, indeed, we had been. 
In lieu of many mortal flies, a race 
Of giants living, each, a thousand years. 
That we might see our own work out, and watch 
The sandy footprint harden into stone." 

I answer'd nothing, doubtful in myself 
If that strange Poet-princess with her grand 



352 THE PRIXCESS: A MED LET. 

Imaginations might at all be won. 

And she broke out interpreting my thoughts: 

" No doubt we seem a kind of monster to you; 
We are used to that: for women, up till this 
Cramp'd under w^orse than South-sea-isle taboo, 
Dwarfs of the gynaeceum, fail so far 
In high desire, they know not, cannot guess 
How much their welfare is a passion to us 
If we could give them surer, quicker proof — 
O if our end were less achievable 
By slow approaches, than by single act 
Of immolation, any phase of death. 
We were as jDrompt to spring against the pikes, 
Or down the fiery gulf as talk of it. 
To compass our dear sisters' liberties." 

She bow'd as if to veil a noble tear; 
And up we came to where the river sloped 
To plunge in cataract, shattering on black blocks 
A breath of tiiunder. O'er it shook the woods, 
And danc'd the color, and, below, stuck out 
The bones of some vast bulk that lived and roar'd 
Before man was. She gazed awhile and said, 
" As these rude l)ones to us, are we to her 
That will be." "Dare we dream of that," I ask' 1. 
" Which wrought us, as the workman and his work. 
That practice betters? " " How," she cried, " you lovt 
The metaphysics! read and earn our prize, 
A golden broach : beneath an emerald plane 
Sits Diotima, teaching him that died 
Of hemlock; our device; wrought to the life; 
She rapt upon her subject, he on her: 
For there are schools for ail." " And yet," I said, 
" Methinks I have not found among them all 
One anatomic." " Nay, we thought of that," 
She answer'd, "but it pleased us not: in truth 
We shudder but to dream our maids should ape 
Those monstrous males that carve the living IioUlI^. 
And cram him with the fragments of the grave, 
Or in the dark dissolving human heart, 
And holy secrets of this microcosm, 
Dabbling a shameless hand with shameful jest, 
Encarnalize their spirits: yet we know 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLET. 353 



Knowledge is knowledge, and this matter hangs: 

How'beit ourself, foreseeing casualty, 

Nor willing men should come among us, learnt, 

For many weary moons before we came. 

This craft of healing. Were you sick, ourself 

Would tend upon you. To your question now. 

Which touches on the workman and his work. 

Let there be light and there was light: 'tis so: 

For was, and is, and will be, are but is; 

And all ci'eation is one act at once. 

The birth of light: but we that are not all, 

As parts, can see but parts, now this, now that, 

And live, jjcrforce, from thought to thought, and make 

One act a phantom of succession: thus 

Our weakness somehow shapes the shadow, Time; 

But in the shadow we will work, and mould 

The woman to the fuller day." 

She spake 
With kindled e_yes; we rode a league beyond. 
And, o'er a bridge of pinewood crossing, came 
On flower)' levels underneath the crag. 
Full of all beauty. " O how sweet," I said, 
(For I was half-oblivious of my mask,) 
" To linger here with one that loved us." " Yea " 
She answer'd, "or with filr philosophies 
That lift the fancy; for indeed these fields 
Are lovely, lovelier not the Elysian lawns. 
Where pacetl the Demigods of old, and saw 
The soft white vapor streak tlie crowned towers 
Built to the Sun:" then, turning to her maids, 
"Pitch our pavilion here upon the sward; 
Lay out the viands." At the word, they rais'd 
A tent of satin, elaborately wrought 
With fair Corinna's triumph; here she stood. 
Engirt with many a florid maiden-cheek. 
The woman-conqueror: woman conquer'd there 
The bearded Victor of ten-thousand hymns. 
And all the men mourned at his side: but we 
Set forth to climb; then, climbing, Cyril kept 
With Psyche, with Melissa Florian, I 
With mine affianc'd. Many a little hand 
Glanc'd like a touch of sunshine on the rocks, 
Many a light foot shone like a jewel set 
In the dark crag: and then we turn'd, we wound 
About the cliffs, the copses, out and in, 



23 



354 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLET. 



Hammering and clinking, chattering stony names 
Of shale and hornblende, rag and trap and tuff. 
Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the sun 
Grew broader toward his death and fell, and all 
The rosy heights came out above the lawns. 








rt^' 




The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story; 
The long light shakes across the lakes 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flving. 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 



O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, 

And thinner, clearer, I'arther going! 
O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elflaiid faintly blowing! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying; 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDIAE!. 



355 



O love, thev die in yon rich slvV. 

They faint on hill or field or river: 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying dving, dying 




IV. 



" There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun. 
If tliat hypothesis of theirs be sound," 
Said Ida; " let us down and rest:" and we 
Down from the lean and wrinkled precipices, 
By every coppice-feather'd chasm and cleft, 
Dropt thro' the ambrosial gloom to where below 

No bigger than a glow-worm shone the tent 
Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she lean'd on me, 
Descending: once or twice she lent her hand. 
And blissful palpitations in the blood. 
Stirring a sudden transport rose and fell. 



But when we planted level feet, and dipt 
Beneath the satin dome and enter'd in. 
There leaning deep in broider'd down we sank 
Our elbows: on a tripod in the midst 
A fragrant flame rose, and before us glow^'d 
Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and gold. 



356 THE PRINCESS: A MED LET. 

Then she, "Let some one sing to us: lightlier move 
The minutes fledg'd with music:" and a maid, 
Of those beside her, smote her harp, and sang : 



" Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no inore. 

" Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, 
That brings our friends up from the under world. 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

" Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

" Dear as remember'd kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
On lips that are for others: deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more." 



She ended with such passion that the tear, 
She sang of, shook and fell, an erring pearl 
Lost in her bosom: but with some disdain 
Answer'd the Princess: "If indeed there haunt 
About the moulder'd lodges of the Past 
So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men. 
Well needs it we should cram our ears with wool 
And so pace by: but thine are fancies hatch'd 
In silken-folded idleness; nor is it 
Wiser to weep a true occasion lost, 
But trim our sails, and let old bygones be. 
While down the streams that float us each and aL 
To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice. 
Throne after throne, and molten on the waste 
Becomes a cloud: for all things serve their time 
Toward that great year of equal mights and rights. 
Nor would I fight with iron laws, in the end 
Found golden: let the past be past; let be 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLET. 357 

Their cancell'd Babels: tho' the rough kex break 
The stan''d mosaic, and the wild goat hang 
Upon the shaft, and the wild fig-tree split 
Their monstrous idols, care not while \ve hear 
A trumpet in the distance pealing news 
Of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, burns 
Above the unrlsen morrow:" then to me, 
" Know you no song of your own lantl?" she said, 
" Not such as moans about the retrospect. 
But deals with the other distance and the hues 
Of promise; not a death's-head at the wine." 

Then I remember'd one myself had made. 
What time I watch'd the swallow winging south 
From mine own land, part made long since, and part 
Now while I sang, aiid maidenlike as far 
As 1 could ape their treble, did I sing. 



" O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, 
And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee. 



"O tell her, .Swallow, thou that knowesf each, 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the North. 

" O Swallow, .Swallow, if I could follow and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 

" O were I thou that she might take me in. 
And lav me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 



" Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love. 
Delaying as the tender ash delays 
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green.' 



" O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown : 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South 
But in the North long since niy nest is made. 



" O tell her, brief is life, but love is long, 
And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 



358 THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 

" O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, 
Flv to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee." 

I ceased, and all the ladies, each at each. 
Like the Ithacensian suitors in old time 
Stared with great eyes, and laugh'd with alien lips, 
And knew not what they meant; for still my voice 
Rang false: but smiling, "Not for thee," she said, 
" O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan 
Shall burst her veil: m^irsh-divers, rather, maid, 
Shall ci-oak thee sister, or the meadow-ciake 
Grate her harsh kindred in the grass: and this 
A mere love-poem ! O for such, my friend, 
We hold them slight: they mind us of the time 
When we made bricks in Egypt. Knaves are men, 
That lute and flute fantastic tenderness, 
And dress the victim to the offering up, 
And paint the gates of Hell with Paradise, 
And play the slave to gain the tyranny. 
Poor soul! I had a maid of honor once; 
She wept her true eyes blind for such a one, 
A rogue of canzonets and serenades. 
I loved her. Peace be with her. She is dead. 
So they blaspheme the Muse! but great is song 
Used to great ends: ourself have often tried 
Valkvrian hymns, or into rhythm have dash'd 
The passion of tiie prophetess; for song 
Is duer unto freedom, force and growth 
Of spirit, than to junketing and love. 
Love is it? Would this same mock-love, and this 
Mock-Hymen were laid up like winter bats, 
Till all men grew to rate us at our worth, 
Not vassals to be beat, nor pretty babes 
To be dandled, no, but living wills, and sphered 
Whole in ourselves and owed to none. Enough! 
But now to leaven play with profit, you. 
Know you no song, the true growth of your soil. 
That gives the manners of your countrywomen?" 

She spoke and turn'd her sumptuous head with eyts 
Of shining expectation fixt on mine. 
Then while I dragg'd my brains for such a song, 
Cyril, with whom the bell-mouth'd flask had wrought. 
Or master'd by the sense of sport, began 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 359 

To troll a careless, careless tavern-catch 
Of JSIoll and Meg, and strange experiences 
Unmeet for ladies. Florian nodded at him, 
I frowning; Psyche fliish'd and vvann'd and shook; 
The lily like Melissa droop'd her brows; 
"Forbear," the Princess cried; " Forbear, Sir," I; 
And heated thro' and thro' with wrath and love, 
I smote him on the breast; he started up; 
There rose a shriek as of a city sack'd; 
Melissa clamor'd, " Flee the death ; " " To horse," 
Said Ida; " home! to horse! " and fled, as flies 
A troop of snowy doves athwart the dnsk, 
When some one batters at the dovecote-doors. 
Disorderly the women. 

Alone I stood 
With Florian, cursing Cyril, vex'd at heart. 
In the pavilion: there like parting hopes 
I heard them passing from me: hoof by hoof, 
And every hoof a knell to my desires, 
Clang'il on the bridge; and then another shriek, 
"The Head, the Head, the Princess, O the Head! " 
For blind with rage she miss'd the plank, and roll'd 
In the river. Out I sprang from glow to gloom ; 
There whirl'd her white robe like a biossom'd brancll 
Rapt to the horrible fall ; a glance I gave. 
No more, but woman-vested as I was 
Plung'd; and the flood drew; yet I caught her; then 
Oaring one arm, and bearing in my left 
The weight of all the hopes of half the world 
Strove to buffet to land in vain. A tree 
Was half-disrooted from his place and stoop'd 
To drench his dark locks in the gurgling wave 
Mid-channel. Right on this we drove and caught, 
And grasping down the boughs I gain'd the shore. 

There stood her maidens glimmeringlv group'd 
■ In the hollow bank. One reaching forward drew 
My burthen from mine arms; they cried, " She lives!'' 
They bore her back into the tent ; but I, 
So much a kind of shame within me wrought. 
Not yet endur'd to meet her opening eyes, 
Nor found my friends; but push'd alone on foot 
(For since her horse was lost I left her mine) 
Across the woods, and less from Indian craft 



360 THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 

Than beelike instinct hiveward, found at length 
The garden portals. Two great statues, Art 
And Science, Caryatids, lifted up 
A weight of emblem, and betwixt were valves 
Of open-work in which the hunter rued 
His rash intrusion, manlike, but his brows 
Had sprouted, and the branches thereupon 
Spread out at top, and grimly spiked the gates. 

A little space was left between the horns, 
Thro' which I clamber'd o'er at top with pain, 
Dropt on the sward, and up the linden walks. 
And, tost on thoughts that chang'd from hue to hue, 
Now poring on the glow-worm, now the star, 
I paced the terrace till the Bear had wheel'd 
Thro' a great arc his seven slow suns. 

A step 
Of lightest echo, then a loftier form 
Than female, moving thro' the uncertain gloom, 
Disturb'd me with the doubt " if this were she," 
But it was Florian. '• Hist, O hist," he said, 
" They seek us: out so late is out of rules. 
Moreover ' Seize the strangers ' is tlie cr3\ 
How came you here?" I told him: " I," said he, 
"Last of the train, a moral leper, I 
To whom none spake, half-sick at heart, return'd, 
Arriving all confus'd among the rest 
With hooded brows I crept into the hall. 
And, couch'd behind a Judith, underneath 
The head of Holoferues peep'd and saw, 
Girl after girl was call'd to trial: each 
Disclaim'd all knowledge of us; last of all, 
Melissa: trust me. Sir, I pitied her. 
She, question'd if she knew us men, at first 
Was silent; closer prest, denied it not: 
And then, demanded if her mo'diei' knew, 
Or Psyche, she affirm'd not, or denied : 
From whence the Royal mind, familiar with her, 
Easily gather'd either guilt. vShe sent 
For Psyche, but she was not tiiere; she call'd 
For Psyche's child to cast it from the doors; 
She sent for Blanche to accuse her face to face; 
And I slipt out: but \vliither will you now.' 
And where are Psyche, Cyril.' both are fled: 



THE PRINCESS. A MEDLEY. 



What, if together? that were not so well. 
Would rather we had never come! I dread 
His wildness, and tiie chances of the dark." 

" And yet," I said, "you wrong him moi'e than I 

That struck him: this is proper to the clown, 

Tho' smock'd, or furr'd and purpled, still the clown, 

To harm the thing that trusts him, and to shame 

That which he says he loves: for Cyril, howe'er 

He deal in frolic, as to-night — the song 

Might have been worse and sinn'd in grosser lips 

Beyond all pardon — as it is, I hold 

These flashes on the surface are not he. 

He has a solid base of temperament: 

But as the water-lily starts and slides 

Upon the level in little puffs of wind, 

Tho' anchor'd to the bottom, such is he." 

Scarce had I ceas'd when from a tamarisk near 
Two Proctors leapt upon us, crying, " Names." 
He, standing still, was clutch'd; but I began 
To thrid the musky-circled mazes, wind 
And double in and out the boles, and race 
By all the fountains: fleet I was of foot: 
Before me siiower'd the rose in flakes; behind 
I heard the j^uff'd pursuer; at mine ear 
Bubbled the nightingale and heeded not. 
And secret laughter tickled all my soul. 
At last I hook'd my ankle in a vine. 
That claspt the feet of a Mnemosyne, 
And falling on my face was caugh': and kaC'Tr.o 

They haled us to the Princess \/nes?? SifiS ;-..l" 
High in the hall: above her droop'd a la;r-p, 
And made the single jewel on her brow 
Burn like the mystic fire on a mast-head, 
Prophet of storm: a hajid-maid on each side 
Bow'd toward her, combing out her long black hair 
Damp from the river; and close behind her stood 
Eight daughters of the plough, stronger than men, 
Huge women blowz'd with health, and wind, and rain- 
And labor. Each was like a Druid rock; 
Or like a spire of land that stands apart 
Cleft from the main, and waiFd about with mews. 



362 THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 

Then, as we came, the crowd dividing clove 
An advent to the throne; and therebeside, 
Half-naked, as if caught at once from bed 
And tumbled on the purple footcloth, lay 
The lily-shining child; and on the left, 
Bow'd on her palms and folded up from wrong. 
Her round white shoulder shaken with her sobs, 
Melissa knelt; but Lady Blanche erect 
Stood up and spake, an affluent orator. 

" It was not thus, O Princess, in old days: 
You prized my counsel, lived upon my lips: 
I led you then to all the Castalies; 
I fed you with the milk of ever3' Muse; 
I loved you like this kneeler, and you me 
Your second mother: those were gracious times. 
Then came 3'our new friend: you began to change — 
I saw it and grievVl — to slacken and to cool; 
Till taken with Jier seeming openness 
You turn'd your warmer currents all to her. 
To me you froze: this was itiv meed for all. 
• Yet I bore up in jjart from ancient love, 
And partly that I hoped to win you back. 
And partly conscious of mv own deserts. 
And partly that you were my civil head. 
And chiefly you were born for something great. 
In whicli I might your fellow-worker be, 
When time should serve; and thus a noble sclieme 
Grew up from seed we two long since had sown; 
In us true growth, in her a Jonah's gourd. 
Up in one night and due to sudden sun: 
We took this palace; but even from the first 
You stood in your own liglit and darken'd mine. 
What student came but that you planed her path 
To Lady Psyche, younger, not so wise, 
A foreigner, and I your countrywoman, 
I your old friend and tried, she new in all? 
But still her lists were swell'd and mine were lean; 
Yet I bore up in hope she would be known : 
Then came these wolves: tJicy knew her: they endur'd. 
Long-closeted with her the yester-morn, 
To tell her what they were, and she to hear: 
And me none told: not less to an eve like mine, 
A lidless watcher of the public weal. 
Last night, their mask was patent, and my foot 



THE PRINCESS: A MED LET. 363 



Was to you: but I thought again: I feai'd 

To meet a cold ' We thank you, we shall hear of it 

From Lady Psyche: ' you had gone to her, 

She told, perforce; and winning easy grace, 

No doubt, for slight delay, remaiu'd among us 

In our young nursery still unknown, the stem 

Less grain than touchwood, while my honest heat 

Were all miscounted as malignant haste 

To push my rival out of place and power. 

But public use requir'd she should be known; 

And since my oath was ta'en for public use, 

I broke the letter of it to keep the sense. 

I spoke not then at first, but watch 'd them well, 

Saw that they kept apart, no mischief done; 

And yet this day (tho' you should hate me for it) 

1 came to tell you: found that you had gone, 

Ridd'n to the hills, she likewise: now, I thought. 

That surely she will speak; if not, then I: 

Did she? These monsters blazon 'd what thev were. 

According to the coarseness of their kind. 

For thus I hear; and known at last (my work) 

And full of cowardice and guilty shame, 

I grant in her some sense of shame, she flies; 

And I remain on whom to wreak your rage, 

I, that have lent my life to build up yours, 

I, that have wasted here health, wealth, and time, 

And talents, I — you know it — I will not boast: 

Dismiss me, and I prophesy 3'our jjlan, 

Divorc'd from my experience, will be chaff 

For every gust of chance, and men will saj' 

We did not know the real light, but chased 

The wisp that flickers where no foot can tread." 

She ceased: the Princess answer'd coldly "Good: 
Your oath is broken: we dismiss you: go. 
For this lost lamb (she pointed to the child) 
Our mind is changed : we take it to ourself." 

Thereat the Lady stretch'd a vulture throat. 
And shot from crooked lips a haggard smile. 
" The plan was mine. I built the nest," she said, 
" To hatch the cuckoo. Rise! " and stoop'd to updragj 
Melissa : she, half on her mother propt. 
Half drooping from her, turn'd her face, and cast 



364 THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 

A liquid look on Ida, full of prayer, 

Which melted Florian's fancy as she hung, 

A Niobean daughter, one arm out, 

Appealing to the bolts of Heaven; and while 

We gazed uj^on her came a little stir 

About the doors, and on a sudden rush'd 

Among us, out of breath, as one pursu'd, 

A woman-post in flying raiment. Fear 

Star'd in her eyes, and chalk'd her face, and wing'd 

Her transit to the throne, whereby she fell 

Delivering seal'd dispatches which the Head 

Took half-amaz'd, and in her lion's mood 

Tore open, silent we with blind surmise 

Regarding, while she read, till over brow 

And cheek and bosom brake the wrathful bloom 

As of some fire against a stormy cloud, 

W^hen the wild peasant rights himself, the rick 

Flames, and his anger reddens in the heavens: 

For anger most it seem'd, while now her breast, 

Beaten with some great passion at her heart. 

Palpitated, her hand shook, and we heard 

In the dead hush the papers that she held 

Rustle: at once the lost lamb at her feet 

Sent out a bitter bleating for its dam ; 

The plaintive cry jarr'd on her ire; she crush'd 

The scrolls together, made a sudden turn 

As if to speak, but, utterance failing her. 

She whirl'd them on to me, as who should say, 

" Read," and I read — two letters — one her sire's. 

" Fair daughter, when we sent the Prince your way 
We knew not your ungracious laws, which learnt, 
We, conscious of what temper you are built. 
Came all in haste to hinder wrong, but fell 
Into his father's hands, who has this night. 
You lying close upon his territory, 
Slipt round and in the dark invested you. 
And here he keeps me hostage for his son." 

The second was my father's, running thus: 
"You have our son: touch not a hair of his head: 
Render him up unscath'd : give him your hand: 
Cleave to your contract: tho' indeed we hear 
You hold the woman is the better man: 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 365 

A rampant heresy, such as if it spread 

Would make all women kick against their lords 

Thro' all the world, and which might well deserve 

That we this night should pluck your palace down; 

And we will do it, unless you send us back 

Our son, on the instant, whole." 

So far I read; 
And then stood up and spoke impetuously. 

" O, not to pry and peer on your reserve, 
Bulled by golden wishes, and a hope 
Tlie child of regal compact, did I break 
Your precinct ; not a scorner of your sex 
But venerator, zealous it should be 
All that it might be; hear me, for I bear, 
Tho' man, yet human, whatso'er your wrongs. 
From the flaxen curl to the gray lock a life 
Less mine than yours: my nurse would tell me of you; 
I babbled for you, as babies for the moon, 
Vague brightness ; when a boy, you stoop'd to me 
From all high places, lived in all fair lights, 
Came in long breezes rapt from inmost south 
And blown to inmost north; at eve and dawn 
With Ida, Ida, Ida, rang the woods; 
The leader wild-swan in among the stars 
Would clang it, and lapt in wreaths of glow-worm light 
The mellow breaker murmur'dlda. Now, 
Because I would have reach'd you, had you been 
Sphered up with Cassiopeia, or the enthron'd 
Peresphone in Hades, now at length. 
Those winters of abeyance all worn out, 
A man I came to see you: but, indeed. 
Not in this frequence can I lend full tongue, 
O noble Ida, to those thoughts that wait 
On you, their centre : let me say but this. 
That many a famous man and woman, town 
And landskip, have I heard of, after seen 
The dwarfs of pres age; tho' when known, there grew 
Another kind of beauty in detail 
Made them worth knowing; but in you I found 
My boyish dream involv'd and dazzled down 
And master'd, while that after-beauty makes 
Such head from act to act, from hour to hour, 
Within me, that except you slay me here. 
According to your bitter statute-book, 



366 THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 

I cannot cease t<j follow vou, as they say 

The seal does music; who desire you more 

Than s^ro\ving boys their manhood : dying lips, 

With man_v thousand matters left to do, 

The breath of life; oh! more than poor men wealth. 

Than sick men health, — j-ours, yours, not mine, — but half 

Without you, with you, whole; and of those halves 

You worthiest: and howe'er you block and bar 

Your heart with system out from mine, I hold 

That it becomes no man to nurse despair. 

But in the teeth of clench'd antagonisms 

To follow up the \vorthiest till he die: 

Yet that I came not all uuauthoriz'd 

Behold your father's letter." 

On one knee 
Kneeling, I gave it, which she caught, and dash'd 
Unopen'd at her feet: a tide of fierce 
Invective seem'd to wait behind her lips. 
As waits a river level with the dam 
Ready to burst and flood the world with foam ; 
And so she would have spoken, but there rose 
A hubbub in the court of half the maids 
Gather'd together: from the illumin'd liall 
Long lanes of splendor slanted o'er a press 
Of snowy shoulders, thick as herded ewes. 
And rainbow robes, and gems and gem-like eyes, 
And gold and golden heads; they to and fro 
Fluctuated, as flov^'ers in storm, some red, some pale. 
All open-mouth'd, all gazing to the light, 
Some crying there was an army in the land, 
And some that men were in the very walls. 
And some they cared not; till a clamor grew 
As of a new-world Babel, woman-built, 
And worse confounded : high above them stood 
The placid marble Muses, looking peace. 

Not peace she look'd, the Head : but rising up 
Robed in the long night of her deep hair, so 
To the open window moved, remaining there 
Fixt like a beacon-tower above the waves 
Of tempest, when the crimson-rolling eye 
Glares ruin, and the wild birds on the light 
Dash themselves dead. She stretch'd her arms and call'd 
Across the tumult and the tumult fell. 



THE PRINCESS: A MED LET. 367 

^ 

" What fear ye brawlers? am not I your Head? 
On me, me, me, the storm first breaks: / dare 
All these male thunderbolts: what is it ye fear? 
Peace! there are those to avenge us and they come: 
If not, — myself were like enough, O girls. 
To unfurl the maiden banner of our rights, 
And clad in iron burst the ranks of war. 
Or, falling, protomartyr of our cause. 
Die: yet I blame ye not so much for fear; 
Six thousand years of fear have made ye that 
From which I would redeem ye: but for those 
That stir this hubbub — you and you — I know 
Your taces there in the crowd — to-morrow morn 
We hold a great convention: then shall they 
That love their voices more than dutv, learn 
With whom they deal, dismiss'd in shame to live 
No wiser than their mothers, household stuff. 
Live chattels, mincers of each other's fame, 
Full of weak poison, turnspits for the clow'u, 
The drunkard's football, laughing-stocks of Time, 
Whose brains aie in their hands and in their heels, 
But fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to thrum, 
To tramp, to scream, to burnish, and to scour, 
Forever slaves at home and fools abroad." 

She, ending, waved her hands: thereat the crowd 
Muttering dissolv'd: then with a smile, that look'd 
A stroke of cruel sunshine on the cliff. 
When all the glens are drown'd in azure gloom 
Of thunder-shower, she floated to us and said: 

" You have done well and like a gentleman, 
And like a prince; you have our thanks for all: 
And you look well too in your woman's dress: 
Well have you done and like a gentleman. 
You saved our life: we owe you bitter thanks: 
Better have died and spilt our bones in the flood — 
Then men had said — but now — What hinders me 
To take such bloody vengeance on j'ou both? — 
Yet since our father — Wasps in our good hive, 
You would be quenchers of the light to be. 
Barbarians, grosser than your native bears — 
O would I had his sceptre for one hour! 
You that have dared to break our bound, and guU'd 



368 THE PRINCESS: A HEDLET. 

Our servants, wrong'd and lied and thwarted us — 
/wed with thee! / bound by precontract 
Your bride, your bondslave! not tho' all the gold 
That veins the world were pack'd to make your crowr 
And every spoken tongue should lord you. Sir, 
Your falsehood and vourself are hateful to us: 
I trample on your offers and on you : 
Begone: w^e will not look upon you more. 
Here, push them out at gates." 

In wrath she spake. 
Then those eight mightj' daughters of the plough 
Bent their broad faces toward lis and address'd 
Their motion : twice I sought tq plead my cause, 
But on my shoulder hung their heavy hands. 
The weight of destiny: so from her face 
They push'd us, down the steps, and thro' the court. 
And with grim laughter thrust us out at gates. 

We cross'd the street and gain'ci a petty mound 
Beyond it, whence we saw the lights and heard 
The voices murmuring. While I listen'd, came 
On a sudden the weird seizure and the doubt: 
I seem'd to move among a world of ghosts: 
The Princess with her monstrous woman-guard. 
The jest and earnest working side by side, 
The cataract and the tumult and the kings 
Were shadows; and the long fantastic night 
With all its doings had and had not been, 
And all things were and were not. 

This went by 
As strangely as it came, and on my spirits 
Settled a gentle cloud of melancholy; 
Not long; I shook it off; for spite of doubts 
And sudden ghostly shadowings I was one 
To whom the touch of all mischance but came 
As night to him that sitting on a hill 
Sees the midsummer midnight, Norway su. 
Set into sunrise: then we moved away. 



Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums, 
That beat to battle where he stands; 

Thy face across liis fancy comes, 
And gives the battle to his hands: 

A moment, while the trumpets blow, 



THE PRINCESS: A MED LET. 369 



He sees his brood about thy knee; 
The next, like fire he meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 



So Lilia sang: we thought her half-possess'd, 
She struck such warbling fury thro' the words; 
And, after feigning pique at what she call'd 
The railler3-,or grotesque, or false sublime — 
Like one that wishes at a dance to change 
The music — clapt her hands and cried for war, 
Or some grand fight to kill and make an end: 
And he that next inherited the tale 
Half-turning to the broken statue said: 
" Sir Ralph has got your colors: if I prove 
Your knight, and fight your battle, what for me?" 
It chanc'd, her empty glove upon the tomb 
Lay by her like a model of her hand. 
She took it and she flung it. " Fight," she said, 
" And inake us all we would be, great and good." 
He knightlike in his cap instead of casque, 
A cap of Tyrol borrow'd from the hall, 
Arrang'd the favor, and assum'd the Prince. 



Now, scarce three paces measur'd from the mound, 
We stumbled on a stationary voice. 

And " Stand, who goes?" " Two from the palace," \. 
^' The second two: they wait," he said, "pass on; 
iiis Highness wakes ": and one, that clash'd in arms, 
By glimmering lanes the walls of canvas, led 
Threading the soldier-city, till we heard 
The drowsy folds of our great ensign shake 
From blazon'd lions o'er the imperial tent 
Whispers of war. 

Entering, the sudden light 
Dazed me half-blind : I stood and seem'd to hear,\ 
As in a poplar grove when a light wind wakes 
A lisping of the innumerous leaf and dies, 
Each hissing in his neighbor's ear; and then 
A strangled titter, out of which there brake 
On all sides, clamoring etiquette to death, 
Unmeasur'd mirth; while now the two old kings 
Began to wag their baldness up and down. 
The fresh young captains flash'd their glittering teeth, 



»4 



370 THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 

The huge biish-beaided Barons heaved and blew, 
And slain with laughter roU'd the gilded Squire. 

At length my Sire, his rough cheek wet wrth tear 
Panted from wearv sides, " King, you are free! 
We did but keep you surety for our son. 
If this be he, — or a draggled mawkin, thou. 
That tends her bristled grunters in the sludge: " 
For I was drench'd with ooze, and torn with briers, 
More crumpled than a poppy from the sheath. 
And all one rag, disprinc'd from head to heel. 
Then some one sent beneath his vaulted palm 
A whisper'd jest to some one near him " Look, 
He has been among his shadows." " Satan take 
The old women and their shadows! (thus the King 
Roar'd) make j'ourself a man to fight with men. 
Go: Cyril told us all." 

As boys that slink 
From ferule and the trespass-chiding eye, 
Away we stole, and transient in a trice 
From what was left of faded woman slough 
To sheathing splendors and the golden scale 
Of harness, issued in the sun, that now- 
Leapt from the dewy shoulders of the Earth, 
And hit the noithern hills. 

Here Cyril met us, 
A little shy at first, but b)' and by 
We twain, with mutual pardon ask'd and given 
For stroke and song, resolder'd peace, whereon 
Follow'd his tale. Amaz'd he fled away 
Thro' the dark land, and later in the night 
Had come on Psyche weeping: " then we fell 
Into your father's hand and there she lies. 
But will not speak, nor stir." 

He show'd a tent 
A stone-shot off: we enter'd in, and there 
Among piled arms and rough accoutrements, 
Pitiful sight, wrapt in a soldier's cloak, 
Like some sweet sculpture draped from head to foot. 
And push'd by rude hands from its pedestal. 
All her fair length upon the ground she lay : 
And at her head a follower of the camp, 
A charr'd and wrinkled piece of womanhood, 
Sat watching like a watcher by the dead. 



THE PRINCESS: A MED LET. 371. 

Then Florian knelt, and "Come" he whisper'd to her, 
"Lift up your head, sweet sister: lie not thus 
What have you done but right? you could not slay 
Me, nor your prince: look up: be comforted: 
Sweet is it to have done the thing one ought, 
When fall'n in darker ways." And like\vise I; 
"Be comforted: have I not lost her too. 
In whose least act abides the nameless charm 
That none has else for me? " She heard, she moved. 
She moan'd, a folded voice; and up she sat. 
And rais'd the cloak from brows as pale and smooth 
As those that mourn half-shrouded over death 
In deathless marble. " Her," she said, " my friend — 
Parted from her — betray'd her cause and mine — 
Where shall I breathe? why kept ye not your faith? 
O base and bad! what comfort? none for me! " 
To whom remorseful Cyril, " Yet I pray 
Take comfort: live, dear lady, for your child! " 
At which she lifted up her voice and cried : 

" Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah, my child, 
My one sweet child, whom I shall see no more! 
For now will cruel Ida keep her back ; 
And either she will die from want of care, 
Or sicken with ill-usage, when they say 
The child is hers — for every little fault. 
The child is hers; and they will beat ni}' girl 
Remembering her mother: O my flower! 
Or they will take her, they will make her hard. 
And she will pass me by in after-life 
With some cold reverence worse than were she dead. 
Ill mother that I was to leave her there. 
To lag behind, scared by the cry they made, 
The horror of the shame among them all : 
But I will go and sit beside the doors. 
And make a wild petition night and day. 
Until they hate to hear me like a wind 
Wailing forever, till they open to me, 

And lay my little blossom at my feet, v. 

My babe, my sweet Aglaia, my one child : 
And I will take her up and go my way, 
'And satisfy my soul with kissing her: 
Ah! what might that man not deserve of me. 
Who gave me back my child? " " Be comforted," 



372 THE PRINCESS: A MEDLET. 

Said Cyril, " 3'ou shall have it," but again 
She veil'd her brows, and prone she sank, and so 
Like tender things that being caught feign death. 
Spoke not, nor stirr'd. 

By this a murmur ran 
Thro' all the camp and inward raced the scouts 
With rumor of Prince Arac hard at hand. 
We left her by the woman, and without 
Found the gray kings at parle: and " Look you," cried 
My father, " that our compact be fulfill'd: 
You have spoilt this child; she laughs at you and man: 
She wrongs herself, her sex, and me, and him : 
But red-faced war has rods of steel and fire; 
She yields, or war." 

Then Gama turn'd to me: 
" We fear, indeed, you spent a stormy time 
With our strange girl: and yet they say that still 
You love her. Give us, then, your mind at large; 
How say you, war or not? " 

" Not war, if possible, 

king," I said, " lest from the abuse of war, 
The desecrated shrine, the trampled year. 

The smouldering homestead, and the household flower 

Torn from the lintel — all the common wrong — ■ 

A smoke go up thro' which I loom to her 

Three times a monster: now she lightens scorn 

At him that mars her plan, but then would hate 

(And every voice she talk'd with ratify it. 

And every face she look'd on justify it) 

The general foe. More soluble is this knot, 

By gentleness than war. I want her love. 

What were I nigher this altho' we dash'd 

Your cities into shards with catapults. 

She would not love; — or brought her chain'd, a slave. 

The lifting of whose eyelash is my lord, 

Not ever would she love; but brooding turn 

The book of scorn till all my flitting chance 

Were caught within the record of her wrongs, 

And crush'd to death; and rather, Sire, than this 

1 would the old God of war himself were dead. 
Forgotten, rusting on his iron hills. 

Rotting on some wild shore with ribs of wreck, 
Or like an old-world inammoth bulk'd in ice, 
Not to be molten out." 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLET. 373 



And roughly spake 
My father, " Tut, you know them not, the girls. 
Boy, when I hear you prate I ahnost think 
That idiot legend credible. Look you. Sir! 
Man is the hunter; woman is his game: 
The sleek and shining creatures of the chase. 
We hunt them for the beauty of their skins; 
They love us for it, and we ride them down. 
Wheedling and siding with them! Out! for shame! 
Boy, there's no rose that's half so dear to them 
As he that does the thing they dare not do, 
Breathing and sounding beauteous battle, comes 
With the air of the trumpet round him, and leaps in 
Among the woinen, snares them by the score 
Flatter'd and fluster'd, wins, though dash'd with death 
He reddens what he kisses: thus I won 
Your mother, a good mother, a good wife. 
Worth winning; but this firebrand — gentleness 
To such as her! if Cyril spake her true, 
To catch a dragon in a cherry net. 
To trip a tiger with a gossamer. 
Were wisdom to it." 

" Yea, but Sire," 1 cried, 
" Wikl natures need wise curbs. The soldier? No: 
What dares not Ida do that she should prize 
The soldier.'' I beheld her, when she rose 
The yester-night, and storming in extremes 
Stood for her cause, and flung defiance down 
Gagelike to man, and had not shunn'd the death. 
No, not the soldier's: yet I hold her, king. 
True woman: but you clash them all in one. 
That have as many differences as we. 
The violet varies from the lily as far 
As oak from elm: one. loves the soldier, one 
The silken priest of peace, one this, one that. 
And some unworthily; their sinless faith, 
A maiden moon that sparkles on a sty, 
Glorifying clown and satyr; whence they need 
More breadth of culture: is not Ida right.' 
They worth it? truer to the law within? 
Severer in the logic of a life? 
Twice as magnetic to sweet influences 
Of earth and heaven? and she of whom you speak, 
M3' mother, looks as whole as some serene 
Creation minted in the golden moods 



374 THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 

Of sovereign artists; not a thought, a touch, 
But pure as lines of green that streak the white 
Of tiie first snowdrop's inner lea\es; I say, 
Not like the piebald miscellany, man. 
Bursts of great heart and slips in sensual mire, 
But whole and one: but take them all-in-all, 
Were we ourselves but half as good, as kind, 
As truthful, much as Ida claims as right 
Had ne'er been mooted, but as frankly theirs 
As dues of Nature. To our point: not war: 
Lest I lose all." 

" Nay, na}', you spake but sense, 
Said Gama. " We remember love ourselves 
In our sweet youth; we did not rate him then 
This red-hot iron to be shaped with blows. 
You talk almost like Ida: she can talk; 
And there is something in it as you say ; 
But you talk kindlier; we esteem you for it. — 
' He seems a gracious and a gallant Prince, 

I would he had our daughter; for the rest. 
Our own detention, why the causes weigh'd. 
Fatherly fears — you used us courteously — 
We would do much to gratify your Prince — 
We pardon it; and for your ingress here 
Upon the skirt and fringe of our fair land, 
You did but come as goblins in the night. 
Nor in the furrow broke the ploughman's head. 
Nor burnt the grange, nor buss'd the milking-maid. 
Nor robb'd the farmer of his bowl of cream : 
But let our Prince (oin- royal woid upon it. 
He comes back safe) ride with us to our lines, 
And speak with Arac: Arac's word is thrice 
As ours with Ida; something may be done — 
I know not what — and ours shall see us friends. 
You, likewise, our late guests, if so you will. 
Follow us: who knows? we four may build some plan 
Foursquare to opposition." 

Here he reach'd 
White hands of farewell to my sire, who growl d 
An answer which, half-mufHed in his beard. 
Let so much out as gave us leave to go. 

Then rode we with the old king across the lawns 
Beneath huge trees, a thousand rings of Spring 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 375 



In every hole, a song on every spray 

Of birds that piped their Valentines, and woke 

Desire in me to infuse my tale of love 

In the old king's eai's, who promis'd help, and ooz'd 

All o'er with honey'd answer as we rode; 

And blossom-fragrant slipt the heavy dews 

Gather'd by night and peace, with each light air 

On our mail'd heads; but other thoughts than Peace 

Burnt in us, when we saw the embattled squares. 

And squadrons of the Prince, trampling the flowers 

With clamor: for among them rose a cry 

As if to greet the king: they made a halt; 

The horses yell'd; tiiey clash'd their arms; the drum 

Beat; merrily blowing shrill'd the martial fife; 

And in the blast and bray of the long horn 

And serpent-throateil bugle, undulated 

The banner: anon to meet us lightly pranc'd 

Three cajjtains out ; nor ever had I se'en 

Such thews of men: the midmost and the highest 

V/as Arac; all about his motion clung 

The shadow of his sister, as the beam 

Of the East, that play'd upon them, made them glance 

Like those three stars of the airy Giant's zone. 

That glitter burnish'd by the frosty dark ; 

And as the fiery Sirius alters hue. 

And bickers into red and emerald, shone 

Their morions, wash'd with morning, as they came. 

And I that prated peace, when first I heard 
War-music, felt the blind wild beast of force, 
Whose home is in the sinews of a man. 
Stir in me as to strike; then took the king 
His three broad sons; with now a wandering hand 
And now a pointed finger, told them all : 
A common light of smiles at our disguise 
Broke from their lips, and, ere the windy jest 
Had labor'd down within his ample lungs, 
The genial giant, Arac, roll'd himself 
Thrice in the saddle, then burst out in words. 

"Our land invaded, 'sdeath! and he himself 
Your captive, )'et my fatlier \vills not war: 
And, 'sdeath! myself, what care I, war or no? 
But then this question of your troth remaijis: 
And there's a do^vnright honest meaning in her; 



376 THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 

She flies too high, she flies too high! :uul yft 
She ask'd but space ami fairphiy f<ir her scheme: 
She prcst ami piest it on me — I myself, 
What know I of these things? but, life and soul! 
I thought her half-right talking of her wrongs: 
I say she flies too high, 'sdeath! what of that? 
I take her for the flower of womankintl, 
Antl so I often tokl her, right or wrong. 
And, Prince, she can be sweet to those she loves, 
And, right or wrong, I care not: this is all, 
I stand upon her side; she made me swear it — 
'Sdeath, — and with solemn rites by candle-light — 
Swear by St. something — I forget her name — 
Her that talk'd down the fifty wisest men; 
She was a princess too; and so I swore. 
Come, this is all; she will not: waive your claim. 
If not, the foughten field, what else, at once 
Decides it, 'sdeath! against my father's will." 

I lagg'd in answer loath to render up 
My precontract, and loath by brainless war 
To cleave the rift of difference deeper yet; 
Till one of those two brothers, half aside 
And fingering at the hair about his lip. 
To prick us on to combat " tike to like! 
The woman's garment hid the woman's heart." 
A taunt that clench'd his purpose like a blow! 
For fiery -short was Cyril's coiniterscofT, 
And sharp I answer'd touch'd upon the point 
Where idle boys are cowards to their shame, 
" Decide it here: why not? we are three to three." 

Then spake the third, "But three to three? no moret 
No more, and in oiu" noble sister's cause? 
More, more, for honor: every captain waits 
Hungry for honor, angry for his king. 
More, more, some fifty on a siile, that each 
May breathe himself, antl quick! by oveithrow 
, Of these or those, the question settled die." 

"Yea," answer'd I, "for this wild wreath of air. 
This flake of rainbow flying on the iiighest 
Foam of men's deeds — this honor, if ve will. 
It needs must be for honor if at all: 



THE Pin N CESS; A AfEDLSr. 377 

Siiico, what decision? if \vc fail, wl' (ail, 

.And il' \vi- win, wc fail: siic wonld nut keep 

Her compact." " 'Sdcath! but wc will send to her," 

Said Arac, " worthy reasons why she should 

]$i(lc by this issue: K't our missive ihro'. 

And you shall have her answer by the word." 

"Boys!" shriek'd the old kiiiLj, but vaiulier than a hen 
To her false (lau|(hters in the pool; for none 
Re;j;arded; neither scem'd there more to say: 
Back rode we to my father's cam|), and found 
He thrice had sent a herald to the gates, 
To learn if Ida yet would cede our claim, 
Or bj' denial Hush her babbliny wells 
With her own people's life: three times he went: 
The first, he blew and blew, but none appear'd: 
He batter'd at the doors; none came: the next, 
An awful voice within had warn'd him thence: 
The third, and those eight daughters of the jjlough 
Came sallying through the gates, and caught his hair. 
And so belabor'd him on rib and cheek 
They made' him wild: not less one glance he caught 
Thro' open doors of Ida station'd there 
Unshaken, clinging to her purpose, firm 
Tho' compass'd by two armies and the noise 
Of arms; and standiiiL; like a stately Pine 
Set in a cataract on an island-crag. 
When storm is on the heights, and right and left 
Suck'<l from the dark heart of the long hills roll 
The torrents, dash'd to the vale: and yet her will 
Bred will in me to overcome or fall. 

Hut whgn I told the king that 1 was pledg'd 
To light in tourney for my bride, he clash'd 
His iron palms together with a cry; 
Himself would tilt it out among the lads: 
But overborne by all his bearded lords 
With reasons drawn from age and state, jicrforce 
He yielded, wroth and'red, with fierce demur: 
And many a bold knight started uj) in heat, 
And sware to combat ibr my claim till death. 

All on this side the palace I'an the field 
Flat to the garilen wall: and likewise here, 



378 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLET. 



/■ 



Above the garden's glowing blossom-belts, 

A column'd entry shone and marble stairs, 

And great bronze valves, emboss'd with Tomyris 

And what she did to Cyrus after fight, 

But now fast barr'd: so here upon the flat 

All that long morn the lists were hammer'd up, 

And all that morn the heralds to and fro. 

With message and defiance, went and came; 

Last, Ida's answer, in a royal hand. 

But shaken here and there, and rolling words 

Oration-like. I kiss'd it and I read. 

" O brother, vou have known the pangs we felt, 
What heals of intlig nation when we heard 
Of those that iron-ciampVl their women's feet; 
Of lands in whicli at the altar the poor bride 
Gives her harsh groom for bridal-gift a scourge; 
Of living hearts that crack within the fire 
Where smoulder their dead despots; and of those,— 
Mothers, — that, all prophetic pity, fling 
Their pretty maids in the running flood, and swoops 
The \ulture, beak and talon, at the heart 
Made for all noble motion: and I saw 
That equal baseness li\'ed in sleeker times 
With smoother men: the old leaven leaven'd all: 
Millions of throats v/oidd bawl for civil rights. 
No woman named: therefore I set-my face 
Against all men, and lived but for mine own. 
Far ofT from men I built a fold for them: 
I stored it full of rich memorial: 
I fenc'd it round with gallant institutes. 
And biting laws to scare the beasts of prev. 
And prosper'd; till a rout of saucj' boys 
Brake on us at our books, and marr'd our peace, 
Mask'd like our maids, blustering I knew not what 
Of insolence and love, some pretext held 
Of baby troth, inxalid, since my will 
Seal'd not the bond — the striplings! — for their sport! — 
I tamed my leopards: shall I not tame these? 
Or you? or I? for since you think me touch'd 
In honor — what, I would not aught of false — 
Is not our cause pure? and whereas I know 
Your prowess, Arac, and what mother's blood 
You draw from, fight, you failing, I abide 
What end soever: fail you will not. Still 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLET. 379 



Take not his life: he risk'd it for my own; 

His mother lives: yet whatsoe'er you do, 

Fight and fight well; strike and strike home. O dear 

Brothers, the woman's Angel guards you, you 

The sole men to be mingled with our cause. 

The sole men we sliall prize in the after-time. 

Your very armor hallow'd, and your statues 

Rear'd, sung to, when this gad-fly brush'd aside. 

We plant a solid foot into the Time, 

And mould a generation strong to move 

With claim on claim, from right to right, till she 

Whose name is yoked v/ith children's, know herself; 

And knowledge in our own land make her free, 

And, ever following those two crowned twins. 

Commerce and conquest, shower the fier)' grain 

Of freedom broadcast over all that orbs 

Between the Northern and the Southern morn." 

Then came a postcript dash'd across the rest. 
" See that there be no traitors in your camp: 
We seem a nest of traitors — none to trust: 
Since our arms fail'd — this Egypt plague of men! 
Almost our maids were better at their iiomes, 
Than thus man-girdled here: indeed I think 
Our chiefest comfort is the little child 
Of one unworthy mother; which she left: 
She shall not have it back: the child shall grow 
To prize the authentic mother of her mind. 
I took it for an hour in my own bed 
This morning: there the tender orphan hands 
Felt at my heart, and seemed to charm from thence 
The wrath I nurs'd against the world: farewell." 

I ceased: he said: " Stubborn, but she may sit 
Upon a king's right hand in thunderstorms, 
And breed up warriors! See now, tho' yourself 
Be dazzled by the wildfire Love to sloughs 
That swallow common sense, the spindling kino-. 
This Gama swamp'd in lazy tolerance. 
When the man wants weight, the woman takes it up, 
But topples down the scales; but this is fixt 
As are the roots of earth and base of all; 
Man for the field and woman for the hearth; 
Man for the sword and for the needle she: 



380 THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 

Man with the head and woman with the heart: 
Man to command and woman to obey; 
All else confusion. Look you! the gray mare 
Is ill to live with, when her whinny shrills 
From tile to scullery, and her small good-man 
Shrinks in his arm-chair while the fires of Hell 
Mix with his hearth: but you— she's yet a colt — 
■ Take, break her: strongly groom'd and straitly curb'd 
She might not rank with those detestable 
That let the bantling scald at home, and brawl 
Their rights and wrongs like potherbs in the street. 
They say she's comely; there's the fairer chance" 
I like her none the less for rating at her! 
Besides, the woman wed is not as we, 
But suffers change of frame. A lusty brace 
Of twins may weed her of her folly. Boy, 
The bearing and the training of a child 
Is woman's wisdom." 

Thus the hanl old king: 
I took my leave, for it was nearly noon- 
I pored upon her letter which I held. 
And on the little clause "take not his life: " 
1 mused on that wild morning in the wood. 
And on the " Follow, follow, thou shalt v.-in: " 
I thought on all the wrathful king had said. 
And how the strange betrotlinient was to end: 
Then I remember'd that burnt sorcerer's curse 
That one should fight with shadows and should fall; 
And like a flash the weird affection came. 
King, camp and college turned to hollow shows; 
I seem'd to move in old memorial tilts. 
And doing battle with forgotten ghosts. 
To dream myself the shadow of a dream: 
And ere I woke it was tlie point of noon. 
The lists were read}'. Empanoplied and plumed 
We enter'd in, and waited, fifty there 
Opposed to fifty, till the trumpet blared 
At the barrier like a wild liorn in a land 
Of echoes, and a moment, and once more 
The trumpet, and again: which the storm 
Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge of spears 
And riders front to front, until they closed 
In conflict with the crash of shivering points. 
And thunder. Yet it seem'd a dream: I dream'd 
Of fighting. On his haunches rose the steed. 



THE PRINCESS: A MED LET. 381 



And into fiery splinters leapt the lance, 

And out of stricken helmets sprang the fire. 

A noble dream! what was it else I saw? 

Part sat like rocks; part reel'd but kept their seats; 

Part roll'd on the earth and rose again and drew: 

Part stumbled mixt with floundering horses. Down 

From those two bulks at Arac's side, and down 

From Arac's arm, as from a giant's flail, 

The large blows rain'd, as here and ever3'where 

He rode the mellay, lord of the ringing lists, 

And all the plain — brand, mace, and shaft, and shield — 

Shock'd, like an iron-clanging anvil bang'd 

With hammers; till I thought, can this be he 

From Gama's dwarfish loins? if this be so, 

The mother makes us most — and in mv dream 

I glanc'd aside, and saw tlie palace-front 

Alive with fluttering scarfs and ladies' eyes. 

And highest, among the statues, statue-like, 

Between a cymbal'd Miriam and ajael, 

With Psyche's babe, was Ida watching us, 

A single band of gold about her hair, 

Like a Saint's glory up in heaven: but she 

No saint — inexorable — no tenderness — 

Too hard, too cruel: j-et she sees ine fight. 

Yea, let her see me fall! with that I drave 

Among the tliickest and bore down a Prince, 

And Cyril, one. Yea, let me make m^' dream 

All that I would. But that large-moulded man. 

His visage all agrin as at a wake, 

Made at me thro' the press, and, staggering back. 

With stroke on stroke the horse and horseman came 

As comes a pillar of electric cloud, 

Flaying the roofs and sucking up the drains. 

And shadowing down the champaign till it strikes 

On a wood, and takes, and breaks, and cracks, and splits 

And twists the grain with such a roar that Earth 

Reels, and the herdsmen cry ; for everythino- 

Gave way before him: only Florian, he 

That loved me closer than his own right ej'e. 

Thrust in between; but Arac rode him down: 

And Cyril seeing it, push'd against the Prince, 

With Psyche's color round his helmet, tough, 

Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at arms; 

But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that smote 

And threw him: last I spurr'd; I felt my veins 



382 



THE PRINCjCSS: A MEDLBl'. 



Stretch with licrcc heat; a moment hand to hand. 
And sword to sword, and horse to horse we hinig, 
Till I struck out and shouted ; the blade glanc'd ; 
I did but shear a feather, and dream and truth 
Flow'd from uic; darkness closed me; and I fell. 




Home they brought her warrior dead ; 

She nor swoon'd, nor utterM cry: 
All her maidens, watching, said, 

" She must weep or she will die." 



Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Call'd him worthy to be loved. 

Truest friend and noblest foe; 

Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEr. 383 



Stole a maiden from her place, 
Lightly to the warrior stept, 

Took the face-cloth from the face: 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years, 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest came her tears- 
" Sweet my child, I live lor thee." 



VI. 



My dream had never died or lived again. 
As in some mystic middle state I lay; 
Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard; 
Tho', if I saw not, yet they told me all 
So often that I speak as having seen. 

For so it seem'd, or so they said to me, 
That all things grew more tragic and more strange; 
That when our side was vanquish'd and iny cause 
Forever lost, there went up a great cry. 
The Prince is slain. My father heard and ran 
In on the lists, and there unlaced my ca.sque 
And grovell'd on my body, and after him 
Came Psyche, sorrowing for Aglaia. 

But high upon the palace Ida stood 
With Psyche's babe in arm: there on the roofs 
Like that great dame of Lapidoth she sang. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : the seed 
The little seed they laugh'd at in the dark. 
Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk 
Of spanless girth, that lays on every side 
A thousand arms and rushes to the sun. 

" Our eiiemies have fall'n, have fall'n: they came: 
The leaves were wet with women's tears: they heard 
A noise of songs they would not understand; 
They mark'd it with the red cross to the fall. 
And would have strown it, and are fall'n themselves. 



384 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : they came, 
The woodmen with their axes: lo the tree! 
But we will make it fagots for the hearth, 
And shape it plank and beam for roof and floor, 
And boats and bridges for the use of men. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: they struck; 
With their own blows they hurt themselves, nor knew 
There dwelt an iron nature in the grain : 
The glittering axe was broken in their arms, 
Their arms were shatter'd to the shoulder blade. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, but this shall grow 
A night of Summer from the heat, a breadth 
Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power; and roU'd 
With music in the growing breeze of Time, 
The tops shall strike from star to star, the fimgs 
Shall iTiove the stony bases of the world. 

" And now, O maids, behold our sanctuary 
Is violate, our laws broken: fear we not 
To break them more in their behoof, whose arms 
Champion'd our cause and w^on it with a day 
Blanch'd in our annals, and perpetual feast, 
When dames and heroines of the golden year 
Shall strip a hundred hollows bare of Spring, 
To rain an April of ovation round 
Their statues borne aloft, the three : but come, 
We will be liberal, since our rights are won. 
Let them not lie in the tents with coarse mankind, 
111 nurses; but descend, and proffer these 
The brethren of our blood and cause, that there 
Lie bruis'd and maim'd, the tender ministries 
Of female hands and hospitality." 

She spoke, and with the babe yet in her arms, 
Descending, burst the great bronze valves, and led 
A hundred maids in train across the Park. 
Some cowl'd, and some bare-headed, on they came. 
Their feet in flowers, her loveliest: by them went , 
The enamor'd air sighing, and on their curls 
From the high tree the blossom wavering fell. 
And over them the tremulous isles of light 
Slided, they moving under shade: but Blanche 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 385 



At distance follow'd: so they came: anon 

Tliro' open field into the Hsts they wound 

Timorously; and as the leader of the herd 

That hokls a stately fretwork to the sun, 

And follow'd up by a hundred airy does, 

Steps with a tender foot, light as on air, 

The lovely, lordly creature floated on 

To where her wounded brethren lay; there stay'd; 

Knelt on one knee, — the child on one, — and prest 

Their hands, and call'd them dear deliverers. 

And happy warriors and immortal names, 

And said, "You shall not lie in the tents but here. 

And nurs'd by those, for whom you fought, and serv'd 

With female bands and hospitality." 

Then, whether mov'd by this, or was it chance, 
She past my way. Up started from my side 
The old lion, glaring with his whelpless eye, 
Silent ; but when she saw me lying stark, 
Dishelm'd and mute, and motionlessly pale. 
Cold ev'n to her, she sigh'd ; and when she saw 
The haggard father's face and reverend beard 
Of grisly twine, all dabbled with the blood 
Of his own son, shudder'd a twitch of pain. 
Tortured her mouth, and o'er lier forehead past 
A shadow, and her hue changed, and she said: 
" He saved my life: my brother slew him for it." 
No moie: at which the king in bitter scorn 
Drew from my neck the painting and the tress. 
And held them up: she saw tliem, and a day 
Rose from the distance on her memory. 
When the good Queen, her mother, shore the tress 
With kisses, ere the days of Lady Blanche: 
And then once more she look'd at my pale face: 
Till understanding all the foolish work 
Of Fancy, and the bitter close of all. 
Her iron will was broken in her mind; 
Her noble heart was molten in her breast; 
She bow'd, she set the child on the earth; she laid 
A feeling finger on my brfiws, and presently 
" O Sire," she said, " he lives; he is not dead: 
O let me have him with my brethren here 
In our own palace: we will tend on him ' 
Like one of these; if so, by any means, 



Vo 



386 THE PRIXCESS: A MEDLET. 

To lighten this great clog of thanks, that make 
Our progress falter to the woman's goal." 

She said: but at the happy word " he lives," 
My father stoop'd, re-father'd o'er my wounds. 
So those two foes above my fallen life, 
With brow to brow like night and evening mixt 
Their dark and gray, while Psyche ever stole 
A little nearer, till the babe that by us, 
Half-lapt in glowing gauze and golden brede. 
Lay like a new fall'n meteor on the grass, 
Uncared for, spied its mother and began 
A blind and babbling laughter, and to dance 
Its body, and reach its fatling innocent arms 
And lazy lingering fingers. She the appeal 
Brook'd not, but clamoring out " Mine — mine — not voui 
It is not 3'ours, but mine: give me the child," 
Ceas'd all on tremble: piteous was the cry: 
So stood the unhapoy mother open-mouth'd. 
And turn'd her face each way: wan was her cheek 
With hollow watch, her blooming mantle torn, 
Red grief and mother's hunger in her eye, 
r And down dead-heavy sank her curls, and half 

The sacred mother's bosom, panting burst 
The laces toward her babe; but she nor cared 
Nor knew it, clamoring on, till Ida heard, 
Look'd up, and rising slowly from me, stood 
Erect and silent, striking with her glance 
The mother, me, the child; but he that laj' 
Beside us, Cyril, batter'd as he was, 
Trail'd himself up on one knee; then he drew 
Her robe to meet his lips, and down she look'd 
At the arm'd man sideways, pitying, as it seem'd 
Or self-involv'd; but when she learnt his face. 
Remembering his ill-omcn'd song, arose 
Once more thro' all her height, and o'er him grew 
Tall as a figure lengthen'd on the sand 
When the tide ebbs in sunshine, and he said: 

O fair and strong and terrible ! Lioness 
That with your long locks play the Lion's mane! 
But Love and Nature, these are two more terrible 
And stronger. See, your foot is on our necks. 
We vanquish'd, you the victor of your will, 



THE PRINCESS: A MED LET. 387 



What would you more? give her the child! remain 
Orb'd in youi' isolation: he is dead, 
Or all as dead: henceforth we let you be: 
Win )ou the hearts of women; and beware 
Lest, where you seek the common love of these, 
The common hate with the revolvino wheel 
Should drag you down, and some great Nemesis 
Break from a darken'd future, crown'd with fire 
And tread you out forever: but howso'er 
Fix'd in yourself, never in your own arms 
To hold your own, deny not hers to her. 
Give her the child ! O if, I say, you keep 
One pulse that beats true woman, if you lov'd 
The breast that fed or arm that dandled you, 
Or own one part of sense not flint to prayer. 
Give her the child! or if you scorn to lay it. 
Yourself, in hands so lately claspt with yours, 
Or speak to her, your dearest, her one fault 
The tenderness, not yours, that could not kill, 
Give me it; /will give it her." 

He said: 
At first her eye with slow dilation roll'd 
Dry flame, she listening; after sank and sank 
And, into mournful twilight mellowing, dwelt 
Full on the child; she took it: "Pretty bud! 
Lily of the vale! half open'd bell of the woods! 
Sole comfort of my dark hour, when a world 
Of traitorous friend and broken system made 
No purple in the distance, mystery. 
Pledge of a love not to be mine, farewell; 
These men are hard upon us ^s of old. 
We too must part: and yet how fain was I 
To dream thy cause embrac'd in mine, to think 
I might be something to thee, when I felt 
Thy helpless warmth about my barren breath 
In the dead prime : but may thy mother prove 
As true to thee as false, false, false to me! 
And, if thou needs must bear the yoke, I wish it 
Gentle as freedom" — here she kiss'd it: then— 
"All good go with thee! take it. Sir," and so 
Laid the soft babe in his hard-mailed hands. 
Who turn'd half-round to Psyche as she sprang 
To meet it, with an eye that swum in thanks: 
Then felt it sound and whole from head to foot 
And hugg'd and never hugg'd it close enough. 



388 THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 

And in her hunger mouth'd and mumbled it, 
And hid her bosom with it; after that 
Put on more calm and added suppliantly: 

"We two were friends: I go to mine own land 
Forever: find some other: as for me 
I scarce am fit for your great plans: 3et speak to me, 
Say one soft word and let me part forgiven." 

But Ida spoke not, rapt upon the child. 
Then Arac. "Ida — 'sdeath! you blame the man; 
You wrong yourselves — the woman is so hard 
Upon the vs'oman. Come, a grace to me! 
I am your warrior; I and mine have fought 
Your battle; kiss her; take her band, she weeps: 
'Sdeath! I would sooner fight thrice o'er than see it." 

But Ida spoke not, gazing on the ground. 
And reddening in the furrows of his chin. 
And moved beyond his custom, Gaina said: 

" I've heard that there is iron in the blood. 
And I believe it. Not one word? not one? 
Whence drew you this steel temper? not from me, 
Not from your mother, now a saint with saints. 
She said you had a heart — I heard her say it — 
' Our Ida has a heart' — ^just ere she died — 
' But see that some one with authority 
Be near her still,' and I — I sought for one — 
All people said she had authority — 
The Lady Blanche: much profit! Not one word; 
No! the' your father sues: see how you stand 
Stiff as Lot's wife, and all the good knights maim'd, 
I trust that there is no one hurt to death. 
For vour wild whim : and was it then for this, 
Was it for this we gave our palace up, 
Where we withdrew from summer heats and state. 
And had our wine and chess beneath the planes. 
And many a pleasant hour with her that's gone. 
Ere you were born to vex us? Is it kind? 
Speak to her I say : is this the son of whom 
When first she came, all flush'd you said to me 
Now had you got a friend of your own age, 
Now could you share your thought: now should men see 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLET. 389 



Two women faster welded in one love 

Than pairs of wedlock ; she you walk d with, she 

\ on talkVl with, whole nights long, up in the tower, 

Of sine and arc, spheroid and azimuth 

And right ascension, Heaven knows what; ami now 

A word, but one, one little kindl)' word. 

Not one to spare her: out upon you, flint! 

You love nor her, nor nie, nor any: nay 

You shame your mother's judgment too. Not one? 

You will not? well — no heart have you, or such 

As fancies like the vermin in a nut 

Have fretted all to dust and bitterness." 

So said the small king moved beyond his, wont. 

But Ida stood nor spoke, drain'd of her force 
By many a varying influence and so long. 
Down thro' her limbs a drooping languor wept: 
Her head a little bent, and on her mouth 
A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded moon 
In a still water: then brake out my sire 
Lifting his grim head from my wounds. " O youv 
Woman, whom we thought woman even now, 
And were half fool'd to let you tend our son, 
Because he might have wish'd it — but we see 
The accomplice of your madness unforgiven. 
And think that you might mix his draught with death 
When your skies change again: the rougher hand 
Is safer: on to the tents: take up the Prince." 

He rose, and while each ear was prick'd to attend 
A tempest, thro' the cloud that dimm'd her broke 
A genial warmth and light once more, and shone 
Thro' glittering drops on her sad friend. 

" Come hither, 

Psyche," she cried out, " embrace me, come. 
Quick while I melt; make reconcilement sure 
With one that cannot keep her mind an hour: 
Come to the hollow heart they slander so! 
Kiss and be friends, like children being chid! 

/ seem no more: /want forgiveness too: 

1 should iiave had to do with none but maids. 
That have no links with men. Ah false but dear 
Dear traitor, too much loved, why? — why? Yet see 
Before these kings we embrace you yet once more 



390 THE PRINCESS: A MEDLET. 

With all forgiveness, all oblivion, 
And trust, not love, you less. 

And no\\', O Sire, 
Grant me your son, to nurse, to wait upon him, 
Like mine own brother. For m^- debt to him. 
This nightmare weight of gratitude, I know it; 
Taunt me no more: yourself and yours shall have 
Free adit; we will scatter all our maids 
Till happier times each to her proper hearth; 
What use to keep them here— now? grant my prayer. 
Help, father, brother, help: speak to the king: 
Thaw this male nature to some touch of that 
Which kills me with myself and drags me down 
From my fixt height to mob me up with all 
The soft and milky rabble of womankind, 
Poor weakling ev'n as the}- are." 

Passionate tears 
Followed: the king replied not: Cyril said: 
" Your brother. Lady, — Florian, — ask for him 
Of 3'our great head — for he is wounded too — 
That you may tend upon hnn with the Prince." 
" Ay so," said Ida with a bitter smile, 
" Our laws are broken : let him enter too." 
Then Violet, she that sang the mournful song, 
And had a cousin tumbled on the plain, 
Petition'd too for him. " Ay so," she said, 
" I stagger in the stream : I cannot keep 
My heart an eddy from the brawling hour: 
We break our laws with ease, but let it be." 
*' Ay so," said Blanche; " Amaz'd am I to hear 
Your Highness: but vour Highness breaks with ease 
The law your Highness did not make: 'twas L 
I had been wedded wife, I knew mankind. 
And blocked them out; but these men came to woo 
Your Highness — verih' I think to win." 

So she, and turn'd askance a wintry eye: 
But Ida, with a voice, that like a bell 
Toll'd by an earthquake in a trembling tower. 
Rang ruin, answer'd full of grief and scorn. 

"Fling our doors wide! all, all, not one, but all, 
Not only he, but bv my mother's soul, 
Whatever man lies wounded, friend or foe, 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLET. 391 

Shall enter, if he will. Let our girls flit, 
Till the storm die! but had you stood by us, 
The roar that breaks the Pharos from his base 
Had left us rock. She fain would sting us too 
But shall not. Pass, and mingle with your likes. 
We brook no further insult, but are gone." 

She turn'd; the very nape of her white neck 
Was rosed witii indignation; but the Prince 
Her brother came; the king her father charm 'd 
Her wounded soul with words: nor did mine own 
Refuse her proffer, lastly gav; his hand. 

Then us they lifted up, deril weights, and bare 
Straight to the doors: to them the doors gave way 
Groaning, and in the Vestal entry shriek'd 
The virgin marble under iron heels: 
And on they moved and gain'd the hall, and there 
Rested : but great the crush was, and each base, 
To left and right, of those tall columns drown'd 
In silken fluctuation and the swarm 
Of female whisperers: at the further end 
Was Ida by the throne, the two great cats 
Close by her, like supporters on a shield, 
Bow-back'd with fear: but in the centre stood 
The common men with rolling eyes; amaz'd 
They glared upon the women, and aghast 
The women stared at these, all silent, save. 
When armor clash'd or jingled, while the day, 
Descending, struck athwart the hall and shot 
A flying splendor out of brass and steel. 
That o'er the statues leapt from head to head, 
Now fired an angry Pallas on the helm. 
Now set a wrathful Dian's moon on flame, 
And now and then an echo started up. 
And shuddering fled from room to room, and died 
Of fright in far apartments. 

Then the voice 
Of Ida sounded, issuing ordinance: 
And me they bore up the broad stairs, and thro' 
The long-laid galleries past a hundred doors 
To one deep chamber shut from sound, and due 
To languid limbs and sickness; left me in it; 
And others otherwhere they laid; and all 



392 THE PRINCESS: A MED LEV. 

That afternoon a sound arose of hoof 
And chariot, manj' a maiden passing home 
Till happier times; but some were left of those 
Held sagest, and the great lords out and in, 
From those two hosts that lav beside the walls, 
Walk'd at their will, and everything changed. 



Ask me no more : the moon mav draw tlie sea ; 
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; 

But, O too fond, when have I answer'd thee? 
Ask me no more. 



Ask me no more: what answer should I give? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die! 

Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live; 
Ask me no more. 



Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd: 
I strove against the stream and all in vain : 
Let the great river take me to the main: 

No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 
Ask me no more. 



VII. 



So was their sanctuarv violated. 

So their fair college turn'd to hospital ; 

At first with all confusion : by and bv 

Sweet order lived a^ain with other laws: 

A kindlier influence reign'd; and everywhere 

Low voices with the ministering hand 

Hung round the sick: the maidens came, thev talk'd. 

They sang, they read: till she not fair, began 

To gather light, and she that was, becaine 

Her former beauty treble; and to and fro 

With books, with flowers, with Angel offices, 

Like creatures native unto gracious act. 

And in their own clear element, they moved. 

But sadness on the soul of Ida fell, 
And hatred of her weakness, blent with shame. 
Old studies fail'd; seldom she spoke; but oft 
Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone for hours 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEr. 393 



On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of men 
Darkening her female field ; void was her use, 
And siie as one that climbs a peak to gaze 
O'er lanil and main, and sees a great black cloud 
Drag inward from the deeps, a wall of night, 
Blot out the slope of sea from verge to shore. 
And suck the blinding splendor from the sand, 
And quenching lake by lake and tarn by tarn 
Expunge the world: so fared she gazing there; 
So blacken'd all her world in secret, blank 
And waste it seem'd and vain; till down she came, 
And found fair peace once more among the sick. 

And twilight dawn'd; and morn by morn tlie lark 
Shot up and shrill'd in flickering gyres, but I 
Lay silent in the muffled cage of life: 
And twilight gloom'd; and broader grown the bowers 
Drew the great night into themselves, and Heaven, 
Star after star, arose and fell; but I, 
Deeper than those weird doubts could reach nie, lay 
Quite sunder'd from the moving Universe, 
Nor knew what eye was on me, nor the hand 
That nurs'd me, more than infants in their sleep. 

But Psyche tended Florian : with her ot't 
Melissa came; for Blanche had gone, but left 
Her child among us, willing she should keep 
Court-favor: here and there the small bright head, 
A light of healing, glanc'd about the couch. 
Or thro' the parted silks the tender face 
Peejj'd, shining in upon the wounded man 
With blush and smile, a medicine in themselves 
To wile the length from languorous hours, and draw 
The sting from pain; nor seem'd it strange that soon 
He rose up whole, and those fair charities 
Join'd at her side; nor stranger- seem'd that hearts 
So enjoy'd, so employ'd, should close in love, 
Thau when two dew drops on the petal shake 
To the same sweet air, and tremble deeper down. 
And slip at once all-fragrant into one. 

Less prosperously the second suit obtain'd 
At first with Psyche. Not though Blanche had sworn 
That after that dark night among the fields, 



394 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



She needs must wed him fqr her own good name* 
Not tho' he built upon the babe restored; 
Nor tho' she hked liim, yielded she, but fear'd 
To incense the Head once more; till on a day 
When Cyril pleaded, Ida came behind 
Seen but of Psyche: on her foot she hung 
A moment, and she heard, at which her face 
A little flush'd, and she past on: but each 
Assum'd from thence a half-consent involv'd 
In stillness, plighted troth, and were at peace. 

Not only tiiese : Love in the sacred halls 
Held carnival at will, and flying struck 
With showers of random sweet on maid and man. 
Nor did her father cease to press my claim. 
Nor did mine own now reconciled; nor vet 
Did those twin brothers, risen again and whole; 
Nor Arac, satiate with his victory. 

But I lay still, and with me oft she sat: 
Then came a change; for sometimes I would catch 
Her'liand in wild delirium, gripe it hard. 
And fling it like a viper off, and shriek 
" You are not Ida ; " clasp it once again. 
And call her Ida, tho' I knew her not, 
And call her sweet, as if in irony. 
And call her hard and cold which seem'd a truth: 
And still she fear'd that I should lose my mind, 
And often she believ'd that I should die: 
Till out of long frustration of her care. 
And pensive tendance in the all-weary noons. 
And watches in the dead, the dark, when clocks 
Throbb'd thunder thio' the palace floors, or call'd 
On flying Time from all their silver tongues — 
And out of memories of her kindlier days. 
And sidelong glances at my father's grief. 
And at the happy lovers heart in heart — 
And out of hauntings of my spoken love. 
And lonely listenings to my mutter'd dream. 
And often feeling of the helpless hands, 
And wordless broodings on the wasted cheek — 
From all a closer interest flourish'd up. 
Tenderness touch by touch, and last, to these, 
Love, like an Alpine harebell hung with tears 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 395 

By some cold morning glacier; frail at first 
And feeble, all unconscious of itself, 
But such as gather'd color day by day. 

Last I woke sane, but wellnigh close to death 
For weakness: it w^as evening: silent light 
Slept on the painted walls, wherein were wrought 
Two grand designs: for on one side arose 
The women up in wild revolt, and storm'd 
At the Oppian law. Titanic shapes, they cramm'd 
The forum, and half-crush'd among the rest 
A dwarflike Cato cower'd. On the other side 
Hortensia spoke against the tax ; behind, 
A train of dames: by axe and eagle sat. 
With all their foreheads drawn in Roman scowls, 
And half the wolf's-milk curdled in their veins. 
The fierce triumvirs: and before them paused 
Hortensia, pleading: angry was her face. 

I saw the forms: I knew not where I was: 
They did but seem as hollow shows; nor more 
Sweet Ida: palm to palm she sat: the dew 
Dwelt in her eyes, and softer all her shape 
And rounder show'd : I moved : I sigh'd : a touch 
Came round my wrist, and tears upon my hand: 
Then all for languor and self-pity ran 
Mine down my face, and with what life I had, 
And like a flower that cannot all unfold. 
So drench'd it is with tempest, to the sun, 
Yet, as it may, turns toward him, I on her 
Fixt my faint eyes, and utter'd whisperingly : 

" If you be, what I think you, some sweet dream, 
I would but ask you to fulfil yourself: 
But if you be that Ida whom I knew, 
I ask you nothing: only, if a dream. 
Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die to-night. 
Sloop down and seem to kiss me ere I die." 

I could no more, but lay like one in trance, 
That hears his burial talk'd of by his friends. 
And cannot speak, nor move, nor make one sign. 
But lies and dreads his doom. She turn'd; she paus'd; 
She stoop'd; and out of languor leapt a cry; 



396 THE PRINCESS: A MED LET. 

—^ 

Leapt fiery Passion from the brinks of death: 
And I believ'd that in the Uving world 
My spirit closed with Ida's at the Hps; 
Till back I fell, and from mine arms she rose 
Glowing all over noble shame; and all 
Her falser self slipt from her like a robe, 
And left her woman, lovelier in her mood 
Than in her monld that other, when she came 
From barren deeps to conqner all with love; 
And down the streaming crystal dropt; and she 
Far-fleeted by the purple island-sides, 
Naked, a double light in air and wave. 
To meet her Graces, where they deck'd her out 
For worship without end; nor end of mine, 
Stateliest, for thee! but mute she glided forth, 
Nor glanc'd behind her, and I sank and slept, 
Fill'd thro' and thro' with Love, a happy sleep. 

Deep in the night I woke: she, near mc, held 
A volume of the Poets of her land : 
There to herself, all in low tones, she read. 

"Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; 
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; 
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: 
The firefly wakens: waken thou with me. 

" Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost, 
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. 

" Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars. 
And all thy heart lies open unto me. 

" Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves 
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. 

"Now folds the lily all her sweetness up. 
And slips into the bosom of the lake: 
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip 
Into my bosom and be lost in me." 

I heard her turn the page; she found a small 
Sweet Idyl, and once more, as low, she read: 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



397 



1=-^' ^V«r. 




















" Come down, O maid, from )'onder mountain height: 
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang) 
In height and cold, the splendor of the hills? 
But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease 
To glide a sunbeam hy the blasted Pine, 
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire; 
And come, for Love is of the valle}', come, 
For Love is of the valley, come thou down 
And find him; bv the happy threshold, he. 
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize. 
Or red with spirted purple of the vats, 
Or foxlike in the \ine; nor cares to walk 
With Death and Morning on the Silver Ilorns, 
Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ra\ine, 
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice, 
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls 
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors: 
But follow; let the current dance thee down 
To find him in the vallej'; let the wild 



398 THE PRINCESS: A MED LET. 

Lean-headed eagles J'elp alone, and leave 

The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill 

Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, 

That like a broken purpose, waste in air: 

So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales 

Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth 

Arise to thee; the children call, and I 

Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound. 

Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; 

Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn. 

The nioan of doves in iminemorial elms. 

And murmuring of innuinerable bees." 

So she lov^^-toned; Avhile with shut eyes I lay 
Listening; then look'd. Pale was the j^erfect face; 
The bosom with long sighs labor'd; and meek 
Seem'd the full lips, and mild the luminous eyes, 
And the voice trembled and the hand. She said 
Brokenly, that she knew it, she had fail'd 
Li sweet humility; had fail'd in all; 
That all her labor was but as a block . 
Left in the quarry; but she still were loath. 
She still were loath to yield herself to one, 
That wholly scorn'd to help their equal rigiits 
Against the sons of men, and barbarous laws. 
She pray'd me not to judge their cause from her 
That wrong'tl it, sought far less for truth than power 
In knowledge: something wild within her breast, 
A greater than all knowledge, beat her down, 
And she had nurs'd me there from week to week: 
Much had she learnt in little time. In part 
It was ill counsel that misled the girl 
To vex true hearts: yet was she but a girl — 
" Ah fool, and made myself a Queen of farce! 
When comes another such! never, I think 
Till the sun drop dead from the signs." 

Her voice 
Choked, and her forehead sank upon her hands, 
And her great heart thro' all the faultful Past 
Went sorrowing in a pause I dared not break; 
Till notice of a change in the dark world 
Was lisped about the acacias, and a bird. 
That early woke to feed her little ones, 
Sent from a dewy breast a cry for light: 
She moved, and at her feet the volume fell. 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLET. 399 



" Blame not thyself too much," I said, "nor blame 
Too much the sons of men and barbarous laws; 
These were the rough ways of the world till now. 
Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, that know 
The woman's cause is man's: they rise or sink 
Together, dwarf d or godlike, bond or free: 
For she that out of Lethe scales with man 
The shining steps of nature, shares with man 
His nights, his days, moves with him to one goal. 

Stays all the fair young planet in her hands 

If she be small, slight-natured, miserable, 

How shall men grow? but work no more alone! 

Oin- place is much: as far as in us lies 

We two will serve them both in aiding her 

Will clear away the parasitic forms 

That seem to keep her up but drag her down 

Will leave her space to burgeon out of all 

Within her — let her make herself her own 

To give or keep, to live and learn and be 

All that not harms distinctive womanhood: 

For woman is not undevelopt man. 

But diverse: could we make her as the man. 

Sweet Love were slain : his dearest bond is this, 

Not like to like, but like in difFerence. 

Yet in the long years liker must they grow; 

The man be more of woman, she of man; 

He gain in sweetness and in moral height. 

Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world; 
She mental breadth, nor fail in childvvard care, 

Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind; 

Till at the last she set herself to man. 

Like perfect music unto noble words; 

And so these twain, upon the skirts of Time, 

Sit side by side, full-summ'd in all their powers. 

Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be, 

Self- reverent each and reverencing each, 

Distinct in individualities, 

But like each other ev'n as those who love. 

Then comes the statelier Eden back to men: 

Then reign the world's great bridals, chaste and calm: 

Then springs the crowning race of humankind. 

May these things be! " 

Sighing she spoke, " I fear 

They will not." 



400 THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 

" Dear, but let us type them now 
In our own lives, and this proud watchword rest 
Of equal; seeing either sex alone 
Is half itself, and in true marriage lies 
Nor equal, nor unequal : each fulfils 
Defect in each, and always thought in thought, 
Purpose in purpose, will in will, they grow, 
The single pure and perfect animal. 
The two-cell'd heart beating, with one full stroke, 
Life." 

And again sighing she spoke : " A dream 
That once was mine! ^vhat woman taught you this?" 

" Alone," I said, " from earlier than I know, 
Immers'd in rich foreshadowings of the world, 
I loved the woman: he, that doth not, li\-es 
A drowning life, besotted in sweet self. 
Or pines in sad experience worse than death, 
Or keeps his wing'd affections dipt with crime: 
Yet was there one thro' wiiom I loved her, one 
Not learn'd, save in gracious household ways, 
Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants 
No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipt 
In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise, 
Interpreter between tlie Gods and men. 
Who look'd all native to her place, and yet 
On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a spiiere 
Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce 
Sway'd to her from their orbits as they moved. 
And girdled her with music. Happv lie 
With such a mother! faith in womankind 
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high 
Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall 
He shall not blind his soul with clay." 

" But I," 
Said Ida, tremulously, " so all unlike — 
It seems you love to cheat yourself with words: 
This mother is your model. I have heard 
Of your strange doubts: they well might be: I seem 
A mockery to my own self. Never, Prince; 
You cannot love me." 

" Nay but thee," I said 
" From yearlong poring on thy pictur'd eyes. 
Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, and saw 










j-Ti /. %^ .w ^^ ;,^ . /[f 



"A bird 
That early woke to feed her little ones." 



THE PRINCESS: A MED LET. 401 



Thee woman thro' the crust of iron moods 

That mask'd thee from men's reverence up, and forc'd 

Sweet love on pranks of saucy boyhood: now, 

Giv'n back to life, to life indeed, thro' thee, 

Indeed I love: the new day comes, the light 

Dearer for night, as dearer thou for faults 

Lived over: lift thine eyes; my doubts. are dead, 

My haunting sense of hollow shows: the change, 

This truthful change in thee has kill'd it. Dear, 

Look up, and let thy nature strike on mine, 

Like yonder morning on the blind half-world; 

Approach and fear not; breathe upon my brows; 

In that fine air I tremble, all the past 

Melts mist-like into this bright hour, and this 

Is morn to more, and all the rich to-come 

Reels, as the golden Autumn woodland reels 

Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. Forgive me, 

I waste my heart in signs: let be. My bride. 

My wife, my life. O, we will walk this world, 

Yoketl in all exercise of noble end. 

And so thro' those dark gates across the wild 

That no man knows. Indeed I love thee: come, 

Yield thyself up: my hopes and thine are one: 

Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself; 

Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me." 



CONCLUSION. 



26 



So closed our tale, of which I give you all 
The random scheme as wildly as it rose: 
The words are mostly mine; for when we ceas'd 
There came a minute's pause, and Walter said, 
" I wish she had not yielded! " then to me, 
" What, if you drest it up poetically! " 
So pray'd the men, the women: I gave assent: 
Yet how to bind the scatter'd scheme of seven 
Together in one sheaf? What style could suit.' 
The men requir'd that I should give throughout 
The sort of mock-heroic gigantesque. 
With which we banter'd little Lilia first: 
The women — and perhaps they felt their power, 
For something in the ballads which they sang. 



402 THE PRINCESS: A MED LET. 

Or in their silent influence as they sat, 

Had ever seem'd to wrestle with burlesque, 

And drove us, last, to quite a solemn close — 

They hated banter, wish'd for something real, 

A gallant fight, a noble princess — why 

Not make her true-heroic — true-sublime? 

Or all, they said, as earnest as the close? 

Which yet with such a framework scarce could ba 

Then rose a little feud betwixt the two, 

Betwixt the mockers and the realists; 

And I, betwixt them both, to please them both, 

And yet to give the story as it rose, 

I moved as in a strange diagonal. 

And maybe neither pleas'd myself nor them. 

But Lilia pleas'd me, for she took no part 
In our dispute: the sequel of the tale 
Had touch'd her; and she sat, she pluck'd the grass, 
She flung it from her, thinking: last, she fixt 
A showery glance upon her aunt, and said, 
"You — tell us what we are" who might have told, 
For she was cramm'd with theories out of books. 
But that there rose a shout; the gates were closes. 
At sunset, and the crowd were swarming now, 
To take their leave, about the garden rails. 

So I and some went out to these: we climb'd 
The slope to Vivian-place, and turning saw 
The happy valleys, half in light, and half 
Far-shadowing from the west, a land of peace; 
Gray halls alone among the massive groves; 
Trim hamlets; here and there a rustic tower 
Half-lost in belts of hop and breadths of wheat; 
The shimmering glimpses of a stream; the seas; 
A red sail, or a white; and far bevond, 
Imagin'd more than seen, the skirts of France. 

" Look there, a garden ! " said my college friend, 
The Torj' member's elder son, " and there! 
God bless the narrow sea which keeps her off. 
And keeps our Britain, wliolc witiiin herself, 
A nation yet, the rulers and the ruled — 
Some sense of duty, something of a faith. 
Some reverence for the laws ourselves have made, 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 403 

Some patient force to change them when we will, 
Some civic manhood firm against the crowd — 
But yonder, whiff! there comes a sudden heat, 
Tlie gravest citizen seems to lose his head, 
The king is scared, the soldier will not fight. 
The little boy begins to shoot and stab, 
A kingdom topples over with a shriek 
Like an old woman, and down rolls the world 
In mock heroics stranger than our own; 
Revolts, republics, revolutions, most 
No graver than a school-boy's barring out: 
Too comic for the solemn things they are, 
Too solemn for the comic touches in them. 
Like our wild Princess with as wise a dream 
As some of theirs — God bless the narrow seas! 
I wish they were a whole Atlantic broad." 

" Have patience," I replied, " ourselves are full 
Of social wrong; and maybe wildest dreams 
Are but the needful preludes of the truth : 
For me, the genial day, the happy crowd. 
The sport half-science, fill me with a faith. 
This fine old world of ours is but a child 
Yet in the go-cart. Patience! Give it time 
To learn its limbs: there is a hand that guides." 

In such discourse we gain'd the garden rails, 
And there we saw Sir Walter where he stood, 
Before a tower of crimson holly-oaks. 
Among six boys, head under head, and look'd 
No little lily-handed Baronet he, 
A great broad-shoulder'd genial Englishman, 
A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep, 
A raiser of huge melons and of pine, 
A patron of some thirty charities, 
A pamphleteer on guano and on grain, 
A quarter-sessions chairman, abler none; 
Fair-hair'd and redder than a windy morn; 
Now shaking hands with him, now him, of those 
That stood the nearest — now address'd to speech — 
Who spoke few words and pithy, such as closed 
Welcome, farewell, and w^elcome for the year 
To follow: a shout rose again, and made 
The long line of the approaching rookery swerve 



404 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLBr. 



From the elms, and shook the branches of the ilccr 
From slope to slope thro' distant ferns, and rang 
Beyond the bourn of sunset; oh! a shout 
More joyful than the city-roar that hails 
Premier or king! Why should not these great Sirs 
Give up their parks some dozen times a year 
To let the people breathe? So thrice they cried, 
I likewise, and in groups they stream'd away. 

But we went back to the Abbey, and sat on. 
So much the gathering darkness charniVl : we sat 
But spoke not, rapt in nameless reverie, 




Perchance upon tlie future man : the \valls 
Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and owls whoop'd, 
And gradually the powers of the night. 
That lange above the region of the wind, 
Deepenin-g the courts of twilight broke them up 
Thro' all the silent spaces of the worlds, 
Beyond all thought into the Heaven of Heavens. 



Last little Lilia, rising quietly 
Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir Ralph 
From those rich silks, and home well-pleas'd ■we went. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



407 



IN MEMORIAM. 




'j'TRONG Son of God, immortal Love, 
Whom we, that have not seen thy face. 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace. 
Believing where we cannot prove; 

Thine are these orbs of light and shade; 

Thou madest Life in man and brute; 

Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy foot 
Is on the skull which thou hast made. 



Thou wile not leave us in the dust: 

Thou madest man, he knows not why; 
He thinks he was not made to die ; 

And thou hast made him: thou art just. 

Thou seemest human and divine, 
The highest, holiest manhood, thou: 
Our wills are ours, we know not how ; 

Our wills are ours, to make them thine. 



Our little systems have their day ; 

They have their da3' and cease to be: 
They are but broken lights of thee, 

And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 

We have but faith: we cannot know; 

For knowledge is of things we see; 

And yet we trust it comes from thee, 
A beam in darkness: let it grow. 



Let knowledge grow from more to more 
But more of reverence in us dwell; 
That mind and soul, according well, 

May make one music as before, 



408 



IN MEMORIAM. 



But vaster. We are fools and slight ; 
We mock thee when we do not fear: 
But help thy foolish ones to bear; 

Help thy \ain worlds to bear thy light. 

Forgive what seein'd my sin in me; 
What seem'd my worth since I began: 
For merit lives from man to man, 

And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 

Forgive my grief for one remov'd, 
Thy creature, whom I found so fair. 
I trust he lives in thee, and there 

I find him worthier to be loved. 

Forgive these wild and wandering cries, 
Confusions of a wasted vouth; • 

Forgive them where they fail in truth, 

And in thy wisdom inake me wise. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



A. H. H. 



OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII. 




|SV HELD it truth, with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones. 
That men may rise on stepping-stones 
Of their dead selves to higher things. 

But wlio shall so forecast the years, 
And find in loss a gain to match? 
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch 

The far-off interest of tears? 



IN MEMORIAM. 409 



Let Love clasp Grief lest both be diown'd 
Let darkness keep her raven gloss: 
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss, 

To dance witli death, to beat the ground, 

Than that the victor Hours should scorn 
The long result of love, and boast, 
" Behold the man that loved and lost, 

But all he was is overworn." 



Old Yew, which graspest at the stones 
That name the under-lying dead. 
Thy fibres net the dreamless head. 

Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. 

The seasons bring the flower again. 
And bring the firstling to the flock; 
And in the dusk of thee, the clock 

Beats out the little lives of men. 

O not for thee the glow, the bloom, 
Who changest not in an\' gale. 
Nor branding summer suns avail 

To touch thy thousand years of gloom: 

And gazing on thee, sullen tree. 
Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, 
I seem to fail from out my blood 

And grow incorporate into thee. 

III. 

O SORROW, cruel fellowship, 

O Priestess in the vaults of Death, 
O sweet and bitter in a breath. 

What whispeis from thy lying lip? 

" The stars," she whispers, " blindly run ; 
A web is wov'n across tlie sky : 
From out waste places comes a cry. 

And murmurs from the dying sun: 



410 7,V MEMORIAM 



" And all the phantom, Nature, stands. 
With all the music in her tone, 
A hollow echo of my own, — 

A hollow form with empty hands." 

And shall I take a thing so blind. 
Embrace her as my natural good; 
Or crush her, like a vice of blood. 

Upon the threshold of the mind? 



To Sleep I give my powers away ; 

My will is bondsman to the dark; 

I sit within a helmless bark, 
And with my heart I muse and say: 

O heart, how fares it with thee now. 

That thou should'st fail from thy desire, 
Who scarcely darest to inquire 

" What is it makes me beat so low?" 

Something it is which thou hast lost, 
Some pleasure from thine early years. 
Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears, 

That grief hath shaken into frost! 

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross 
All night below the darken'd eyes; 
With morning wakes the will, and cries, 

" Thou shalt not be the fool of loss." 



I SOMETIMES hold it half a sin 
To put in words the grief I feel; 
For words, like Nature, half reveal 

And half conceal the Soul within. 

But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
A use in measur'd language lies; 
The sad mechanic exercise. 

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 



JN MEMORIAM. ^\\ 



In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, 
Like coarsest clothes against the cold ; 
But that large grief which these enfold 

Is given in outline and no more. 



VI. 



One writes, that « Other friends remain," 

That " Loss is common to the race," 

And common is the commonplace, 

And vacant chaff well meant for grain. 

That loss is common would not make 
My own less bitter, rather more: 
Too common! Never morning wore 

To evening, but some heart did break, 

O father, whereso'er thou be. 

Who pledgest now thy gallant son; 
A shot, ere half thy draught be done, 

Hath still'd the life that beat from thee. 

O mother, praying God will save 

Thy sailor, — while thy head is bow'd. 
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud 

Drops in his vast and wandering grave. 

Ye know no more than I who wrought 
At that last hour to please him well; 
Who mused on all I had to tell, 

And something written, something thouo-hf 

Expecting still his advent home; 
Antl ever met him on his way 
With wishes, thinking, here to-day. 

Or here to-morrow will he come. 

O somewhere, meek unconscious dove, 
That sittest ranging golden hair; 
And glad to find thyself so fair. 

Poor child, that waitest for thy love! 



412 IN MEMORIAM. 



For now her father's chimney glows 

In expectation of a guest; 

And thinking " This will please him best," 
She takes a ribbon or a rose; 

For he will see them on to-night; 

And with the thought her color burns; 

And, having left the glass, she turns 
Once more to set a ringlet right; 

And, even when she turn'd, the curse 
Had fallen, and her future lord 
Was drown'd in passing thro' the ford, 

Or kill'd in falling from his horse. 

O what to her shall be the end? 

And what to me remains of good? 

To her, perpetual maidenhood. 
And unto me no second friend. 

VII. 

Dark house, by which once more I stand 
Here in the long imlovely street, 
Doors, where my heart was used to beat 

So quickly, waiting for a hand, 

A hand that can be clasp'd no more, — 

Behold me, for I cannot sleep, 

And like a guilty thing I creep 
At earliest morning to the door. 

He is not here; but far away 
The noise of life begins again. 
And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain 

On the bald street breaks tlie blank day. 

VIII. 

A HAPPY lover who has come 

To look on her that loves him well, 
Who 'lights and rings the gateway beh, 

And learns her gone and far from home; 



IN MEMORIAM. 413 



He saddens, all the magic light 

Dies off at once from bower and hall, 
And all the place is dark, and all 

The chambers emjjtied of delight; 

So find I every pleasant spot 

In which we two were wont to meet, 
The field, the chamber, and the street, 

For all is dark where thou art not. 

Yet as that other, wandering there 
In those deserted walks, may find 
A flower beat with rain and wind. 

Which once she foster'd up with care; 

So seems it in my deep regret, 

my forsaken heart, with thee 
And this poor flower of poesj' 

Which little cared for fades not yet. 

But since it pleas'd a vanish'd eye, 

1 go to plant it on his tomb, 
That if it can it there may bloom, 

Or dying, there at least may die. 



IX. 

Fair ship, that from the Italian shore 
Sailest the placid ocean-plains 
With my lost Arthur's loved remains. 

Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er. 

So draw him home to those that mourn 
In vain; a favorable speed 
Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead 

Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn. ■ 

All night no ruder air perplex 

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright 
As our pure love, thro' early light 

Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 



414 /,Y MEMORIAM. 



Sphere all your lights around, above: 
Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; 
Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now. 

My friend, the brother of my love; 

My Arthur, whom I shall not see 
Till all my widow'd race be run; 
Dear as the mother to the son. 

More than m}' brothers are to me. 



X. 



1 HEAR the noise about thy keel ; 

I hear the bell struck in the night; 

I see the cabin-window bright; 
I see the sailor at the wheel. 

Thou bnngest the sailor to his wife, 
And travell'd men from foreign lands; 
And letters unto trembling hands; 

And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life. 

So bring him: we have idle dreams: 
This look of quiet flatters thus 
Our home-bred foncies: O to us. 

The fools of habit, sweeter seems 

To rest beneath the clover sod. 

That takes the sunshine and the rains, 
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains 

The chalice of the grapes of God ; 

Than if with thee the roaring wells 
Should gulf him fathom deep in brine; 
And hands so often clasp'd in mine 

Should toss with tangle and with shells. 



XI. 



Calm is the morn without a sound. 
Calm as to suit a calmer grief. 
And only thro' the faded leaf 

The chestnut pattering to the ground: 



IN MEMORIAM. 415 



Calm and deep peace on this high wold 
And on these dews that drench the furze, 
And all the silvery gossamers 

That twinkle into green and gold: 

Calm and still light on yon great plain 
That sweeps with all its autumn bovvers, 
And crowded farms and lessening towers, 

To mingle with the bounding main; 

Calm and deep peace in this witie air, 
These leaves that redden to the fall* 
And in my heart, if calm at all. 

If anj' calm, a cahn despair: 

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep. 

And waves that sway themselves in rest, 
And dead calm in that noble breast 

Which heaves but with the heaving deep. 



Lo, AS a dove when up she sprino-s 
To beai- thro' Heaven a tale of woe. 
Some dolorous message knit below 

The wild pulsation of her wings; 

Like her I go; I cannot stay: 
I leave this mortal ark behind, 
A weight of nerves without a mind. 

And leave the cliffs, and haste away 

O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large, 

And reach the glow of southern skies, 
And see the sails at a distance rise. 

And linger weeping on the marge, ' 

And saying, " Comes he thus, my friend? 
Is this the end of all mv care?" 
And circle moaning in the air: 

" Is this the end? Is this the end? " 



*16 IN MEMORIAM. 



And forward dart again, and play- 
About tlie prow, and back return 
To where the bodv sits, and learn, 

That I have been an hour away. 



Tears of the widower, when he sees 
A late-lost form that sleep reveals. 
And moves his doubtful arms, and feels 

Her place is empty, fall like these; 

Which weep a loss forever new, 

A \oid where heart on heait repos'd; 

And, where warm hands have prest and clos'd, 

Silence, till I be silent too, 

Which ^veep the comrade of my choice 

An awful thought, a life remov'd, 

The human-hearted man I loved,. 
A Spirit, not a breathing voice. 

Come Time, and teach me, many years, 

I do not suffer in a dream ; 

For now so strange do these things seem, 
Mine eyes have leisure for tiieir tears; 

My fancies time to rise on wing. 

And glance about the approaching sails. 
As tho' they brought but merchants' bales, 

And not the burthen that the}- bring. 

XIV. 

If one should bring me this report, 

That thou hadst touch'd the land to-day, 
And I went down unto the quay, 

And found tliee lying in the port; 

And standing, muffled round with woe. 
Should see thy passengers in rank 
Come stepping lightly down the [ilank, 

And beckoning unto those they know ; 



IN MEMORIAM. 417 



And if along with these should come 
The man I held as half divine; 
Should strike a sudden hand in mine, 

And ask a thousand things of home; 

And I should tell him all my pain, 

And how mv life had droop'd of late. 
And he should sorrow o'er mv state 

And marvel what possessed mv brain; 

And I perceiv'd no touch of change, 
No hint of death in all his frame, 
But found him all in all the same, 

I should not feel it to be strange. 

XV. 

To-night the winds begin to rise 

And roar from yonder dropping days 
The last red leaf is whirl'd away, 

The rooks are blown about the skies; 

The forest, crack'd, the waters curl'd. 
The cattle huddled on the lea ; 
And wildly dash'd on tower and tree 

The sunbeam strikes along the world : 

And but for fancies, which aver 
That all thy motions gently pass 
Athwart a plane of molten glass, 

I scarce could bi'ook the strain anil stir 

That makes the barren branches loud; 
And but for fear it is not so. 
The wild unrest that lives in %voe 

Would dote and pore on yonder cloud 

That rises upward always higher. 
And onward drags a laboring breast, 
And topples round the dreary wesi; 

A looming bastion fring'd with fire. 



07 



418 



IN MEMORIAM. 



What words are tliese have fall'n from me? 

Can calm despair and wild unrest 

Be tenants of a single breast, 
Or sorrow such a changeling be? 

Or doth she only seem to take 

The touch of change in calm or storm; 
But knows no more of transient form 

In her deep self, than some dead lake 

That holds the shadow of a lark 
Hung in the shadow of a heaven ? 
Or has the shock, so harshly given, 

Confus'd me like the unhappy barl: 

That strikes by night a craggy shelf, 
And staggers blindly er.e she sink? 
And stunn'd me from my power to think 

And all my knowledge of myself; 

And made me that delirious man 
Whose fancy fuses old and new, 
And flashes into false and true. 

And mingles all without a plan? 

XVII. 

Thou comest, much wept for: such a breeze 
Compeird thy canvas, and mv prayer 
Was as the whisper of an air 

To breathe thee over lonely seas. 

For I in spirit saw thee move 

Thro' circles of the bounding sky. 
Week after week : the days go by : 

Come quick, thou bringest all I love. 

Henceforth, wherever thou mny'st roam, 
My blessing, like a line of light, 
Is on the waters day and night. 

And like a beacon sruards tliee nome. 



IN MEMORIAM. 419 



So may whatever tempest mars 
Mid-ocean spare thee, sacred bark; 
And bahny drops in summer dark 

SUde from the bosom of the stars. 

So kind an office hath been done, 

Such precious rehcs brought by thee; 
The dust of him I shall not see 

Till all my widow'd race be run. 

XVIII. 

'Tis well; 'tis something; we may stand 
Where he in English earth is laid, 
And from his ashes may be made 

The violet of his native land. 

'Tis little; but it looks in truth 
As if the quiet bones were blest 
Among familiar names to rest 

And in the places of his youth. 

Come then, pure hands, and bear the head 
That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep, 
And come, whatever loves to weep, 

And hear the ritual of the dead. 

Ah yet, ev'n yet, if this might be, 

I, falling on his faithful heart. 

Would breathing through his lips impart 
The life that almost dies in me; 

That dies not, but endures with pain. 
And slowly forms the firmer mind, 
Treasuring the look it cannot find. 

The words that are not heard again. 

XIX. 

The Danube to the Severn gave 

The darken'd heart that beat no more; 
They laid him by the pleasant shore, 

And in the hearing of the wave. 



420 



IN MEMORIAM. 



There twice a day the Severn fills; 
The salt sea-water passes by, 
And hushes half the babbling Wye, 

And makes a silence in the hills. 




The Wye is hiish'd nor moved along, 
And hush'd by deepest grief of all, 
When fill'd with tears that cannot fall, 

I brim with sorrow drowning song. 

The tide flows down, the wave again 
Is vocal in its wooded walls; 
My deeper anguish also falls 

And I can speak a little then. 



The lesser griefs that may be said, 
That breathe a thousand tender vows. 
Are but as servants in a house 

Where lies the master newly dead; 



IN MEMORIAM. 421 



Who speak their feeling as it is, 

And weep the fuhiess from the mind: 
" It will be hard," they say, " to find 

Another service such as this." 

My lighter moods are like to these. 
That out of words a comfort win; 
But there are other griefs within. 

And tears that at their fountain freeze: 

For by the hearth the children sit 
Cold in that atmosphere of Death, 
And scarce endure to draw the breath, 

Or like to noiseless phantoms flit: 

But open converse is there none. 
So much the vital spirits sink 
To see the vacant chair, and think, 

" How good! how kind! and he is gone.'' 

XXI. 



I SING to him that rests below, 

And, since the grasses round me wave, 
I take the grasses of the grave, 

And make them pipes whereon to blow. 

The traveller hears me now and then. 
And sometimes harshly' will he speak: 
" This fellow would make weakness weak, 

And melt the waxen hearts of men." 

Another answers, " Let him be. 
He loves to make parade of pain. 
That with his piping he may gain 

The praise that comes to constancy." 

A third is wroth, " Is this an hour 
For private sorrow's barren song, 
When more and more the people throng 

The chairs and thrones of civil power? 



422 IN MEMORIAM. 



" A time to sicken and to swoon, 

When Science reaches forth her arms 
To feel from world to world, and charms 

Her secret from the latest moon? " 

Behold, ye speak an idle thing: 
Ye never knew the sacred dust; 
I do but sing because I must. 

And pipe but as the linnets sing: 

And one is glad ; her note is gay. 

For now her little ones have ranged; 
And one is sad ; her note is changed. 

Because her brood is stol'n away. 



The path by which we twain did go. 
Which led by tracts that pleas'd us well, 
Thro' four sweet years arose and fell. 

From flower to flower, from snow to snow: 

And we with singing cheer'd the way. 
And crown'd with all the season lent, 
From April on to April went. 

And glad at heart from May to May: 

But where the path we walk'd began 
To slant the fifth autumnal slope. 
As we descended, following Hope, 

There sat the shadow fear'd of man; 

Who broke our fair companionship, 
And spread his mantle dark and cold. 
And wrapt thee formless in the fold, 

And duU'd the murmur on thy lip, 

And bore thee where I could not see 
Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste, 
And think that somewhere in the waste 

The Shadow sits and waits for me. 



IN MEMORIAM. 423 



XXIII. 

Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, 

Or breaking into song by fits, 

Alone, alone, to where he sits, 
The Shadow cloak'tl from head to foot, 

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, 
I wander, often falling lame. 
And looking back to whence I came. 

Or on to where the pathway leads; 

And crying, " How changed from where it ran 
Thro' lands where not a leaf was dumb; 
But all the lavish hills would hum 

The murmur of a happy Pan: 

' When each by turns was guide to each. 
And Fancy light from Fancy caught. 
And Tliought leapt out to wed with Thought 
Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech; 

" Ami all we met was fair and good. 

And all was good that Time could bring, 
And all the secret of the Spring 

Moved in the chambers of the blood; 

" And iTiany an old philosophy 

On Argive heights divinely sang. 

And round us all the thicket rang 
To many a flute of Arcady." 



AxD was the day of my delight 
As sure and perfect as I say? 
The very source and fount of Day 

Is dash'd with wandering isles of night. 

If all was good and fair we met. 
This earth had been the Paradise 



424 IN MEMORIAM. 



It never look'd to human eyes 
Since Adam left his garden yet. 

And is it that the haze of grief 

Malces former gladness loom so great? 
The lowness of the present state, 

That sets the past in this relief ? 

Or that the past will always win 

A glory from its being far; 

And orb into the perfect star 
We saw not, -when we moved therein? 

I KNOW that this was Life, — the track 
Whereon ■with equal feet we fared; 
And then, as now, the day prepared 

The daily burden for the back. 

But this it was that made me move 

As light as carrier-birds in air; 

I lov'd the weight I had to bear, 
Because I needed help of Love; 

Nor could I weary, heart or limb, 

When mighty Love would cleave in twain 

The lading of a single pain. 
And part it, giving half to him. 

XXVI. 

Still onward winds the dreary way; 
I with it; for I long to prove 
No lapse of moons can canker Love, 

Whatever fickle tongues maj' say. 

And if that eye which watches guilt 
And goodness, and hath power to see 
Within the green the moulder'd tree, 

And towers fall'n as soon as built, — 




'And one is sad; her note is changed, 
Because her brood is stol'n away." 

See fage 422. 



IX MEMORIAM. 425 



O, if indeed that eye foresee 
Or see (in Him is no before) 
In more of life true life no more 

And Love the indifference to be, 

Then might I finti, ere yet the morn 
Brealcs hither over Indian seas, 
That Shadow waiting with the keys, 

To shroud me from my proper scorn. 



I ENVY not in any moods 

The captive void of noble rage, 
The linnet born within the cage. 

That never knew the summer woods: 

I envy not the beast that takes 
His license in the field of time, 
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime. 

To whom a conscience never wakes: 

Nor, what may count itself as blest. 
The heart that never plighted troth, 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; 

Nor any want-begotten rest. 

I hold it true, whate'er befall; 

I feelMt, when I sonow most; 

'Tis better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all. 

XXVIII. 

The time draws near the birth of Christ; 

The moon is hid; the night is still; 

The Christmas bells from hill to hill 
Answer each other in the mist. 

Four voices of four hamlets round, 

From far and near, on mead and moor, 
Swell out and fail, as if a door 

Were shut between me and the sound: 



426 IN MEMORIAM. 



Each voice four changes on the wind, 
That now dilate, and now decrease, 
Peace and good-will, good-will and peace, 

Peace and good-will, to all mankind. 

This year I slept and woke with pain, 
I almost wish'd no more to wake. 
And that my hold on life would break 

Before I heard those bells again. 

But they my troubled spirit rule. 

For they controll'd me when a hoy; 
They bring me sorrow touch'd with joy, 

The merry, merry bells of Yule. 

XXIX. 

With such compelling cause to grieve 
As daily vexes household peace. 
And chains regret to his decease. 

How dare we keep our Christmas-eve; 

Which brings no more a welcome guest 
To enrich the threshold of the night 
With shower'd largess of delight. 

In dance and song and game and jest. 

Yet go, and while the holly-boughs 
Entwine the cold baptismal font. 
Make one wreath more for Use and Wont 

That guard the portals of the house; 

Old sister of a day gone by, 

Gray nurses, loving nothing new; 
Why should they miss their yearly due 

Before their time? They too will die. 

XXX. 

With trembling fingers did we weave 
The holly round the Christmas hearth; 
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth. 

And sadly fell on Christmas-eve. 



IN MEMORIAM. 427 



At our old pastimes in the hall 

We gamboll'd, making vain pretence 
Of gladness, with an awful sense 

Of one mute Shadow watching all. 

We paused: the winils were in the beech; 

We heard them sweep the winter land; 

And in a circle hand-in-hand 
Sat silent, looking each at each. 

Then echo-like our voices rang; 
We sang tho' every eye was dim, 
A merry song we sang with him 

Last year: impetuously we sang: 

We ceased : a gentler feeling crept 

Upon IIS : surely rest is meet : 

" They rest," we said, " their sleep is sweet," 
And silence follovv'd, and we wept. 

Our voices took a higher range; 

Once more we sang: " They do not die 

Nor lose their mortal sympathy, 
Nor change to us, although they change; 

"Rapt from the fickle and the frail 
With gather'd power, yet the same 
Pierces the keen seraphic flame 

From orb to orb, from veil to veil." 

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn. 

Draw forth the cheerful day from night: 
O Father, touch the east, and light 

The light that shone when Hope was born. 



When Lazarus left his charnel-cave. 
And home to Mary's house return'd, 
Was this demanded, — if he yearn'd 

To hear her \veeping by his grave.' 



428 /A' MEMORIAM. 



" Where wert thou, brother, those four days? " 

There lives no recortl of reply, 

Which telling what it is to die 
Had surelv added praise to praise. 

From every house the neighbors met, 

The streets were fill'd with joyful sound, 
A solemn gladness even crown'd 

The purple brows of Olivet. 

Behold a man rais'd up by Christ ! 

The rest remaineth unreveal'd; 

He told it not; or something seal'd 
The lips of that Evangelist. 



Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, 
Nor. other tliought her mind admits 
But, he was dead, and there he sits, 

And he that brought him back is there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother's face, 

And rests upon the Life Indeed. 

All subtle thought, all curious fears, 
Borne down bj- gladness so complete, 
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet 

With costly spikenard and with tears. 

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, 
Whose loves in higher love endure- 
What souls possess themselves so pure, 

Or is there blessedness like theirs? 

XXXIII. 

O THOU that after toil and storm 

May'st seem to have reach'd a purer air. 
Whose faith has centre everywhere. 

Nor cares to fix itself to form, 



JN MEMORIAM. 429 



Leave tliou thy sister, when she prays, 
Her early Heaven, her happy views; 
Nor thou with shadow'd hint confuse 

A hfe that leads melodious days. 

Her faith thro' form is pure as thine, 
Her hands are quicker unto good: 
Oh ! sacred be the flesh and blood 

To which she links a truth divine! 

See thou, that countest reason ripe 
In holding by the law within, 
Thou fail not in a world of sin, 

And ev'n for want of such a type. 



My own dim life should teach me this, 
That life shall live Ibrevermore, 
Else earth is darkness at the core. 

And dust and ashes all that is: 

This round of green, this orb of flame, 
Fantastic beauty; such as lurks 
In some wild Poet, when he works 

Without a conscience or an aim. 

What then were God to sucii as I ? 

'Twere hardly worth my while to choose 

Of things all mortal, or to use 
A little i^atience ere I die; 

'Twere best at once to sink to peace. 
Like birds the charming serpent draws 
To drop head-foremost in the jaws 

Of vacant darkness, and to cease. 

XXXV. 

Yet if some voice that man could trust 
Should murmur from the narrow house, 
"The cheeks drop in; the body bows; 

Man dies: nor is there hope in dust." 



430 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Might I not say, " Yet even here, 
But for one hour, O Love, I strive 
To keep so sweet a thing alive? " 

But I should turn mine ears and hear 




The meanings of the homeless sea. 

The sound of streams that swift or slow 
Draw down ^-Eonian hills, and sow 

The dust of continents to he ; 

And Love would answer witli a sigh, 
" Tiie sound of that forgetful shore 
Will change ni}- sweetness more and more. 

Half-dead to know that I shall die." 

O me! what profits it to put 

An idle case? If Death were seen 
At first as Death, Love had not been, 

Or lieen in narrowest working shut. 



Mere fellowship of sluggish moods. 

Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape 

Had hruis'd tlie herb and crush'd the grape, 
And bask'd and batten'd in the woods. 



IN MEMORIAM. 43] 



XXXVI. 

Tho' truths ill manhood darkly join, 
Deep-seated in our mystic frame, 
We yield all blessing to the name 

Of Him that made them current coin; 

For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers. 
Where Truth in closest words shall fail, 
When Truth embodied in a tale 

Shall enter in at lowly doors. 

And so the Word had breath, and wrought 
With human hands the creed of creeds 
In loveliness of perfect deeds, 

More strong than all poetic thought; 

Which he may read that binds the sheaf, 
Or builds the house, or digs the grave. 
And those wild eyes that watch the wave 

In roarings round the coral reef. 



XXXVII. 

Urania speaks with darken'd brow; 

Thou pratest here where thou art least; 

This taith has many a purer priest. 
And many an abler voice than thou. 

" Go down beside thy native rill, 
On thy Parnassus set thy feet. 
And hear thy laurel whisper sweet 

About the ledges of the hill." 

And my Melpomene replies, 

A touch of shame upon her cheek: 
" I am not worthy ev'n to speak 

Of thy prevailing mysteries; 

" For I am but an earthly Muse, 
And owning but a little art 



432 IN MEMORIAM. 



To lull with song an aching heart, 
And render human love his dues; 

" But brooding on the dear one dead, 
And all he said of things divine, 
(And dear to me as sacred wine 

To dying lips is all he said), 

" I murmur'd, as I came along. 

Of comfort clasp'd in truth reveal'd; 
And loiter'd in the Master's field. 

And darken'd sanctities with sonsj." 



With weary steps I loiter on, 
Tho' always under altcr'd skies 
The purple from the distance dies. 

My prospect and horizon gone. 

No joy the blowing season gives. 
The herald melodies of spring, 
But in the songs I love to sing 

A doubtful gleam of solace lives. 

If any care for what is here 
Survive in spirits render'd free. 
Then are these songs I sing of thee 

Not all ungrateful to thine ear. 



Old warder of these buried bones. 

And answering now my random stroke 
With fruitful cloud and living smoke, 

Dark yew, that graspest at the stones 

And dippest toward the dreainless head, 
To thee, too, comes the golden hour 
When flower is feeling after flower; 

But Sorrow — fixt upon the dead, 



IN MEMORIAM. 433 



And darkening the dark graves of nien,- 
What vvhisper'd from her lying lips? 
Thy gloom is kindled at the tips, 

And passes into gloom again. 



XL. 



Could we forget the widow'd hour. 
And look on Spirits breathed away, 
As on a maiden in the day 

When first she wears her orange-flower! 

When crown'd with blessing she doth rise 
To take her latest leave of home, 
And hopes and light regrets that come 

Make April of her tender eyes; 

And doubtful joys the father move, 
And tears are on tiie mother's face, 
As parting with a long embrace 

She enters other realms of love; 

Her office there to rear, to teach, 
Becoming, as is meet and fit, 
A link among the davs, to knit 

The generations each with each; 

And, doubtless, unto thee is given 
A life that bears immortal fruit 
In such great offices as suit 

The full-grown energies of heaven. 

Ay me, the difference I discern ! 
How often shall her old fireside 
Be cheer'd with tidings of the bride. 

How often she herself return. 

And tell them all tiiey would have told, 
And bring her babe, and make her boast 
Till even those that miss'd her most 

Shall count new things as dear as old: 



434 IN MEMORIAM. 



But thou and 1 have shaken hands, 
Till growing ■winters lay me low; 
My paths aix in the fields I know, 

And thine in undiscover'd lands. 



Thy spirit ere our fatal loss 

Did ever rise from high to higher; 
As mounts the heavenward altar-fire. 

As flies the lighter through the gross. 

But thou art turn'd to something strange, 
And I have lost the links that bound 
Thy changes; here upon the ground, 

No more partaker of thy change. 

Deep folly! yet that this could be, — 

That I could wing my will with might 
To leap the grades of life and light, 

And flash at once, my friend, to thee: 

For tho' my nature rarely yields 

To that vague fear implied in death; 
Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath, 

The bowlings from forgotten fields: 

Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor 

An inner trouljle I behold, 

A spectral doubt, which makes me cold, 
That I shall be thy mate no more, 

Tho' following with an upward mind 
The .venders that have come to thee, 
Thro' all the secular to-be. 

But evermore a life behind. 

And so may place retain us still. 
And he the much-lielov'd again, 
A lord of large experience, train 
To riper growth the mind and will: 



AV MEMORIAM. 435 



And what delights can equal those 
That stir the spirit's inner deeps, 
When one that loves, but knows not, reaps 

A truth from one that loves and knows? 



If Sleep and Death be truly one, 
And every spirit's folded bloom 
Thro' all its intervital gloom 

In some long trance should slumber on; 

Unconscious of the sliding hour. 
Bare of the body, might it last, 
And silent traces of the past 

Be all the color of the flower: 

So then were nothing lost to man; 

So that still garden of the souls 

In many a figur'd leaf enrolls 
The total world since life began; 

And love will last as pure and whole 
As when he lovetl me here in Time, 
And at the spiritual prime 

Rewaken with the dawning soul. 

XLIV. 

How fares it with the happy dead? 

For here the man is more and more; 

But he forgets the days before 
God shut the doorways of his head. 

The days have vanish'(l, tone and tint. 
And yet perhaps the hoarding sense 
Gives out at times (he knows not whence) 

A little flash, a mystic hint; 

And in the long harmonious years 
(If Death so taste Lethean springs) 
May some dim touch of earthly things 

Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. 



436 AV' MEMORIAM. 



If such a dreamy touch should fall, 
O turn thee round, resolve the doubt; 
M}' guardian angel will speak out 

In that higli place, and tell thee all. 



The baby new to earth and sky. 
What time his tender palm is prest 
Against the circle of tile breast. 

Has never thouglit that " tiiis is I: " 

But as he grows he gathers much. 

And learns the use of " I," and " me," 
And finds " I am not what I see, 

And other than the things I touch." 

So rounds he to a separate mind 

From whence clear memoiy may begin, 
As thro' the frame that binds him in 

His isolation grows defined. 

This use mav lie in blood and breath. 
Which else were fruitless of their due. 
Had man to learn himself anew 

Bevond the secontl birth of Death. 



We ranging down the lower track, 

The path we came by, thorn and flower. 
Is shadow'd by the growing hour. 

Lest life should fail in looking back. 

So be it: there no shade can last 

In that deep dawn behind the tomb, 

But clear from marge to marge shall bloom 

The eternal landscape of the past; 

A lifelong tract of time reveal'd; 

The fruitful hours of still increase; 

Days order'd in a wealthy peace. 
And those five years its richest field. 



IN MEMORIAM. 437 



Oh Love, thy province were not large, 
A bounded field, nor stretching far; 
Look also, Love, a brooding star, 

A rosy warmth from marge to marge. 

XLVII. 

That each, vvlio seems a separate whole. 
Should move his rounds, and fusing all 
The skirts of self again, should fall 

Remerging in the general Soul, 

Is faitli as vague as all unsweet: 
Eternal form shall still divide 
The eternal soul from all beside; 

And I shall know liim when we meet: 

And we shall sit at endless feast. 
Enjoying each the other's good: 
What vaster dream can hit the mood 

Of love on earth? He seeks at least 

Upon the last and sharpest height, 
Before the spirits fade away. 
Some landing-place, to clasp and sav, 

" Farewell! We lose ourselves in light." 



If these brief lays, of Sorrow born. 
Were taken to be such as closed 
Grave doubts and answers here proposed. 

Then these were such as men might scorn : 

Her care is not to part and prove; 

She takes, when harsher moods remit, 
W^hat slender shade of doubt may flit, 

And makes it \assal unto love: 

And hence, indeed, she sports with words, 
But better serves a wholesome law. 
And holds it sin and shame to draw 

The deepest measure from the chords; 



438 l^r MEMORIAM. 



Nor dare she trust a larger lav, 
But rather loosens from the lip 
Short swallow-flights of song, that dip 

Their wings in tears, and skim away. 



From art, from nature, from the schools, 
Let random influences glance, 
Like light in many a shiver'd lance 

That breaks about the dappled pools: 

The lightest wave of thought shall lisp, 
The fancy's tenderest eddy wieathe, 
The slightest air of song shall breathe 

To make the sullen surface crisp. 

And look thy way, and go thy way, 

But blame not thou the winds that make 
The seeming-wanton ripple break, 

The tender-pencil'd shadow play. 

Beneath all fancied hopes and fears, 
A3' me! the sorrow deepens down. 
Whose muffled motions blindly drown 

The bases of mj' life in tears. 



Be near me when my light is low, 

When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick 
And tingle; and the heart is sick, 

And all the wheels of Being slow. 

Be near me when the sensuous frame 
Is rack'd with pangs that conquer trust: 
And Time, a maniac scattering dust. 

And Life, a Fury slinging flame. 

Be near me when my faith is dr)-. 
And men the flies of latter spring. 
That lay their eggs, and sting and sing, 
And weave their petty cells and die. 



IN MEMORIAM. 439 



Be near me when I fade away, 

To point the term of human strife, 
And on the low dark verge of life 

The twilight of eternal day. 



LI. 



Do WE indeed desire the dead 

Should still be near us at our side? 
Is there no baseness we would hide? 

No inner vileness that we dread? 

Should he for whose applause I strove, 
I had such reverence for his blame, 
See with clear eye some hidden shame, 

And I be lessened in his love? 

I wrong the grave with fears untrue: 

Shall Love be blamed for want of faith? 
There must be wisdom with great Death 

The dead shall look me thro' and thro'. 

Be near us when we climb or fall: 

Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours 
With larger other eyes than ours. 

To make allowance for us all. 

LII. 

I CANNOT love thee as I ought. 

For love reflects the thing belov'd : 
My words are only words, and moved 

Upon the topmost froth of thought. 

« Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song," 
The Spirit of true love replied ; 
" Thou canst not move me from thy side, 

Nor human frailty do me wrono-. 

" What keeps a spirit wholly true 

To that ideal which he bears? 

What record ? not the sinless years 
That breathed beneath the Svrian blue: 



440 /.V MEMORIAM. 



" So tret not, like an idle girl, 

That life is dash'd with flecks of sin, 
Abide: th^- wreath is gather'd in, 

When Time hath sunder'd shell from pearl." 



How many a father have I seen, 
A sober man among his boys, 
Whose youth was full of foolish noise, 

Who wears his manhood hale and green: 

And dare we to this fancy give. 

That had the wild-oat not been sown. 
The soil, left barren, scarce had grown 

The grain by which a man ina\- live? 

O, if we iieUl the doctrine sound 
For life outliving heats of j'outh, 
Yet who would preach it as a truth 

To those that eddy round and round? 

Hold thou the good: define it well: 

For fear divine Philosophy 

Should push bevond her mark, and be 
Procuress to the Lords of Hell. 



O YET we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill. 
To pangs of nature, sins of will. 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet; 
That not one life shall be destroy'd, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void, 

When God hath made the pile complete; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire, 

Or but subsen'es another's gain. 




■5- 

V 



:•« ' : ^ '<iKeem= ;:aa»ft: ^aa'6{tei.:aaK<ait«;feaffigaa»aijiaii;:. , , 



IN MEMORIAM. 441 



Behold, we know not anything; 
I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last — tar off— at last, to all, 

And every winter change to spring. 

So runs my dream: but what am I? 
An infant crying in the night: 
An infant crying for tiie light: 

And with no language but a cry. 



The wish, that of the living whole 
No life may fail beyond the grave. 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within the soul? 

Are God and Nature tlien at strife, 
That Nature lends sucli evil dreams? 
So careful of the type she seems, 

So careless of the single life; 

That I, considering everywhere 
Her secret meaning in her deeds, 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear, 

I falter where I firmly trod. 

And falling with m\' weight of cares 
Upon the great world's altar-stairs 

That slope thro' darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all. 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 



" So CAREFUL of the type? " but no. 
From scarped cliff and quarried stone 
She cries, "A thousand types are gone: 

I care for nothing, all shall go. 



*4:2 ly MEMORIAM. 



"Thou makest thine appeal to me: 
I bring to life, I bring to death : 
The spirit does but mean the breath: 

I know no more." And he, shall he, 

Man, her last work, who seein'd so fair, 
Such splendid purpose in his eyes, 
Who roH'd the psalm to wintry skies, 

Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, 

Who truste<l God was love indeed. 
And love Creation's final law, — 
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw 

With ravin, shriek'd against his creed, — 

Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills, 
Who battled for the True, the Just, 
Be blown about the desert dust, 

Or seal'd within the iron hills? 

No more? A monster then, a dream, 
A discord. Dragons of the prime, 
That tear each other in their slime, 

Were mellow music match'd with him. 

O life as futile, then, as frail! 

O for thy voice to soothe ami bless! 

What hope of answer, or redress? 
Behind the veil, behind the veil. 



Peace; come away: the song of woe 

Is after all an earthly song: 

Peace; come away: we do him wrong 
To sing so wildly : let us go. 

Come; let us go: your cheeks are pale; 
But half my life I leave behind: 
Methinks my friend is richly shrined 

But I shall pass; my work will fail. 



IN MEMORIAM. 44.3 



Yet in these ears, till hearing- dies 
One set slow bell will seem to toll 
The passing of the sweetest soul 

That ever look'd with human eyes. 

I hear it now, and o'er and o'er, 

Eternal greetings to the dead; 

And " Ave, Ave, Ave," said, 
" Adieu, adieu," forevermore. 

LVIII. 

In those sad words I took farewell: 

Like echoes in sepulchral halls, 

As drop by drop the water falls 
In vaults and catacombs they fell; 

And, falling, idly broke the peace 
Of hearts that beat from dav to day. 
Half-conscious of their dying clay, 

And those cold crypts where they shall cease. 

The high Muse auswer'd: " Wherefore grieve 

Thy brethren with a fruitless tear? 
■ Abide a little longer here, 
And thou shalt take a nobler leave." 

LIX. 

O Sorrow, wilt tholi live with me. 
No casual mistress, but a wife, 
My bosom friend and half of life; 

As I confess it needs must be; 

O Sorrow, wilt thou rule mv blood, 
Be sometimes lovely like a bride, 
And put thy harsher moods aside. 

If thou wilt have me wise and good. 

My centred passion cannot move, 

Xor will it lessen from to-day; 

But I'll have leave at times to play 
As with the creature of mv love; 



444 IN MEMORIAM. 



And set thee forth, for thou art mine, 
With so much hope for years to come. 
That, howsoe'er I know thee, some 

Could hai'dly tell what name were thine. 



LX. 



He past: a soul of nobler tone: 
My spirit loved and loves him yet, 
Like some poor girl whose heart is set 

On one whose rank exceeds her own. 

He mixing with his proper sphere, 
She finds the baseness of her lot, 
Half jealous of she knows not what, 

And envying all that meet him there. 

The little village looks forlorn: 
She sighs amid her narrow days. 
Moving about the household ways, 

In that dark house where she was born. 

The foolish neighbors come and go. 
And tease her till the day draws by: 
At night she weeps, " How vain am 1! 

How should he love a thing so low J" 

LXI. 

If, in thy second state sublime. 

Thy ransom'd reason change replies 
With all the circle of the wise. 

The perfect flower of human time; 

And if thou cast thine eyes below, 
How dimly character'd and slight. 
How dwarf'd a draught of cold and night, 

How blanch'd with darkness must I grow! 

Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore. 
Where thy first form was made a man; 
I loved thee. Spirit, and love, nor can 

The soul of Shakespeare love thee more. 



IN MEMORIAM. 445 



LXII. 

Tiio' if an eye that's downward cast 

Could make thee somewhat blench oi" fail, 
Then be mj' love an idle tale, 

And fading legend of the past; 

And thou, as one that once declined, 
When he was little more than boy. 
On some unworthy heart with joy, 

But lives to wed an equal mind; 

And breathes a novel world, the while 

His other jjassion wholly dies, 

Or in the light of deeper eyes 
Is matter for a flying smile. 

LXIII. 

Yet pity for a horse e'er-driven. 

And love in which my hound has part, 
Can hang no weight upon my heart 

In its assumptions up to heaven; 

And I am so much more than these. 
As thou, perchance, art more than I, 
And yet I spare them sympathy, 

And I would set their pains at ease. 

So mayst thou watch me where I weep. 
As unto vaster motions hoimd, 
The circuits of thine orbit round 

A higher height, a deeper deep. 



Dost thou look back on what hath been, 
As some divinely gifted man, 
Whose life in low estate began 

And on a simple village green; 

Who breaks his birth's invidious bar. 
And grasps the skirts of happy chance. 



446 IN MEM OR I AM. 



And breasts the blows of circumstance, 
And grapples with his evil star; 

Who makes by force his merit known, 
And lives to clutch the golden keys 
To mould a mighty state's decrees, 

And shape the whisper of the throne; 

And moving up from high to higher, 
Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope 
The pillar of a people's hope, 

The centre of a world's desire; 

Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, 

When all his active powers are still, 
A distant clearness in the hill, 

A secret sweetness in the stream, 

The limit of his narrower fate, 

While yet beside its vocal springs 
He play'd at counsellors and kings, 

With one that was his earliest mate; 

Who ploughs with pain his native lea 
And reaps the labor of his hands, 
Or in the furrow musing stands; 

" Does my old friend remember me?" 

LXV. 

Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt; 

I lull a fancy trouble-tost 

With " Love's too precious to be lost, 
A little grain shall not be spilt." 

And in that solace can I sing. 

Till out of painful phases wrought 
There flutters up a happy thought, 

Self-balanc'd on a lightsome wing: 

Since we deserv'd the name of friends. 
And thine effect so lives in me. 



IN MEMORIAM. W'i 



A part of mine may live in thee, 
And move thee on to noble ends. 



You thought my heart too far diseas'd; 
You wonder ^vhen my fancies plav 
To find me gay among the gav, 

Like one with any trifle pleased. 

The shade b)' which my life was crost, 
Which makes a desert in the mind, 
Has made me kindly with my kind, 

And like to him whose sight is lost; 

Whose feet are guided thro' the land. 
Whose jest among his friends is free, 
Who takes the children on his knee. 

And winds their curls about his hand: 

He plays with threads, he beats his chair 
For pastime, dreaming of the sky; 
His inner day can never die, 

His night of loss is always there. 



When on mv bed tlie moonlight falls, 
I know that in thy place of rest, 
By that broad water of the west. 

There comes a glory on the walls: 

Thy marble bright in dark appears 
As slowly steals a silver flame 
Along the letters of thy name. 

And o'er the number of tlij' years. 

The mystic glory swims away : 

From off my bed the moonlight dies; 
And, closing eaves of wearied eyes, 

I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray: 



448 IN MEMORIAM. 



And then I know the mist is drawn 
A Uicid veil from coast to coast, 
And in the dark church, like a ghost, 

Thv tablet glimmers to the dawn. 

LXVIII. 

When in the down I sink my head, 

Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times my breath; 
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knows not Death, 

Nor can I dream of thee as death 

I walk as eie I walk'd forlorn, 

When all our path was fresh with dew, 
And all the bugle breezes blew 

Reveillee to the breaking morn. 

But what is this? I turn about, 
I find a trouble in thine eye. 
Which makes me sad, I know not why, 

Nor can mv dream resolve the doubt: 

But ere the lark hath loft the lea 

I wake, and I discern the truth; 

It is the trouble of my youth 
That foolish sleep transfers to thee. 



I dream'd there would be Spring no more. 
That Nature's ancient power was lost: 
The streets were black with smoke and frost. 

They chatter'd trifles at the door: 

I wander'd from the noisy town, 

I found a wood with thorny boughs: 
I took the thorns to bind my brows, 

I wore them like a civic crown: 

I met with scoffs, I met with scorns 
From youth and babe and hoary hairs: 
They call'd me in the public squares 

The fool that wears a crown of thorns: 



J.V MEMORIAM. 449 



They call'd me fool, they call'd me child: 
I found an angel of the night; 
The voice was low, the look was bright; 

He look'd upon my crown and smilecl : 

He reach'd the glory of a hand, 
That seem'd to touch it into leaf: 
The voice was not the voice of grief, 

The words were hard to understand. 



I CANNOT see the features right, 

When on the gloom I strive to paint 
The face I know; the hues are faint 

And mix with hollow masks of night; 

Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought, 
A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, 
A hand that points and palled shapes 

In shadowy thoroughfares of thought; 

And crowds that stream from yawning doors, 
And shoals of pucker'd faces drive; 
Dark bulks that tumble half alive, 

Antl lazy lengths on boundless shores: 

Till all at once beyond the will 

I hear a wizard music roll, 

And thro' a lattice on the soul 
Looks thy fair face and makes it still. 

LXXI. 

Sleep, kinsman, thou to death and trance 
And madness, thou hast forged at last 
A»night-long Present of the Past 

In which we went thro' summer France. 

Hadst thou such credit with the soul? 
Then bring an opiate trebly strong, 
Drug down the blindfold sense of wrong 

That so my pleasure may be whole; 



29 



450 



IN MEMORIAM. 



While now we talk as once we talk'd 
Of men and minds, the dust of change, 
The days that grow to something stiange, 

In walkinor as of old we walk'd 







Beside the liver's wooded reach, 

The fortress and the mountain ridge, 
Tlie cataract flashing from the bridge, 

The breaker breaking on the beach. 



IN MEMORIAM. 451 



LXXII. 

RiSEST thou thus, dim dawn, again, 
And hovvlest, issuing out of night, 
With blasts that blow the poplar white, 

And lash with storm the streaming pane? 

Day, when my crown'd estate begun 
To pine in that reverse of doom, 
Which sicken'd every living bloom, 

And blurr'd the splendor of the sun; 

Who ushcrest in the dolorous hour 

With thy quick tears that make the rose 
Pull sideways, and the daisy close 

Her crimson tVinges to the shower; 

Who might'st have heaved a windless flame 
Up the deep East, or, whispering, play'd 
A chequer-work of beam and shade 

Along the hills, yet looked the same. 

As wan, as chill, as wild as now; 

Day, mark'd as with some hideous crime 
When the dark hand struck down thro' time. 

And canceird nature's best: but thou. 

Lift as thou may'st thy burthen'd brows 
Thro' clouds that drench the morning star, 
And whirl the ungarner'd sheaf afar. 

And sow the sky with flying boughs. 

And up thy vault with roaring sounil 
Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day; 
Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray, 

And hide thy shame beneath the ground. 

LXXIII. 

So MANY worlds, so much to do, 
So little done, such things to be, 
How know I what had need of thee, 

For thou wert strong as thou wert true? 



452 7.V MEMORIAM. 



The fame is qiiunch'd that I foresaw, 

The head hath miss'd an earthly wreath: 
I curse not nature, no, nor death ; 

For nothing is that errs from hivv. 

We pass; the path that eacli man trod 
Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds: 
What fame is left for human deeds 

In endless age? It rests with God. 

O hollow wraith of dying fame, 
Fade wholly, while the soul exults, 
And self-infolds the large results 

Of force that would have forged a name. 



As SOMETIMES in a dead man's face, 
To those that watch it more and more, 
A likeness, hardly seen before, 

Comes out — to some one of his race: 

So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, 
I see thee what thou art, and know 
Thy likeness to the wise below. 

Thy kindred with the great of old. 

But there is more tlian I can see. 
And what I see I leave unsaid, 
Nor speak it, knowing Death has made 

His darkness beautiful with thee. 

LXXV. 

I LEAVE thy praises unexpress'd 
In verse that brings myself relief, 
And by the measure of my grief 

I leave thy greatness to be guess'd: 

What practice howso'er expert 
In fitting aptest words to things. 
Or voice the richest-toned that sings, 

Hath power to give thee as thou wen.- 



IN MEMORIAM. 453 



I care not in these fading days 
To raise a cry that lasts not long, 
And round thee with the breeze or song 

To stir a little dust of praise. 

Thy leaf has perish'd in the green, 

And, while wc breathe beneath the sun, 
The world which credits what is done 

Is cold to all that might have been. 

So here shall silence guard thy fame; 
But somewhere, out of human view, 
VVhate'er thy hands are set to do 

Is wrought with tumult of acclaim. 

LXXVI. 

Take wings of fancy, and ascend. 
And in a moment set thy face 
Where all the starry heavens of space 

Are sharpen'd to a needle's end; 

Take wings of foresight; lighten thro' 
The secular abyss to come, 
And lo, th)' deepest lays are dumb 

Before the mouldering of a 3'ew : 

And if the matin songs, that woke 
The darkness of our planet, last. 
Thine own shall wither in the vast, 

Ere half the lifetime of an oak. 

Ere these, have clothed their branchy bowers 
With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain; 
And what are they when these remain 

The ruin'd shells of hollow towers? 

LXXVII. 

What hope is here for modern rhyme 
To him who turns a musing eye 
On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie 

Foreshorten'd in the tract of time? 



454 IN MEMORTAM. 



These mortal lullabies of pain 

May bind a book, may line a box, 
May serve to curl a maiden's locks; 

Or wrien a thousand moons shall wane 

A man upon a stall may find, 

And, passing, turn the page that tells 

A grief, the unchang'd to something else. 

Sung by a long-forgotten mind. 

But what of that? My darken'd ways 
Shall ring with music all the same; 
To breathe my loss is more than fame. 

To utter love more sweet than praise. 

I. XXVIII. 



Again at Christmas did we weave 
The holly round the Christmas hearth 
The silent snow possess'd the earth, 

And calmly fell our Christmas eve: 

The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, 
No wing of wind the region swept. 
But over all things brooding slept 

The quiet sense of something lost. 

As in the winters left behind, 

Again onr ancient games had place, 
The mimic picture's brcatliing grace. 

And dance and song and hoodman-blind. 

Who show'd a token of distress? 
No single tear, no mark of pain: 
O sorrow, then can sorrow wane? 

O grief, can grief be changed to less? 

O last regret, regret can die! 

No — mixt with all this mystic frame. 
Her deep relations are the same. 

But with long use her tears are dry. 



IN MEMORIAM. 455 



" More tlian my brothers are to me," 
Let this not vex thee, noble heart! 
I know thee of what force thou art 

To hold the costliest love in fee. 

But thou and I are one in kind. 
As moulded like in nature's mint; 
And hill and wood and field did print 

The same sweet forms in either mind. 

For us the same cold streamlet curl'd 
Thro' all his eddying coves; the same 
All winds that roam the twilight came 

In whispers of the beauteous world. 

At one dear knee we proffer'd vows. 
One lesson from one book we learn'd, 
Ere childhood's flaxen ringlet turn'd 

To black and brown on kindred brows. 

And so my wealth resembles thine, 
But he was rich where I ^vas poor, 
And he supplied my \vants the more 

As his unlikeness fitted mine. 



If any vague desire should rise, 
That holy Death ere Arthur died 
Had moved me kindlv from his side, 

And dropt the dust on tearless eyes; 

Then fancy shapes, as fancy can, 

The grief my loss in him had wrought, 
A grief as deep as life or thought, 

But stay'd in peace with God and man. 

1 make a picture in the brain; 

I hear the sentence that he speaks ; 

He bears the burthen of the weeks. 
But turns his burthen into gain. 



456 I^T MEMORIAM. 



His credit thus shall set me free; 

And, influence-rich to soothe and save, 
Unused example from the grave 

Reach out dead hands to comfort me. 



Could I have said while he was here, 
" Mj' love shall now no further range; 
There cannot come a mellower change. 

For now is love mature in ear." 

Love, then, had hope of richer store: 
What end is here to my complaint? 
This haunting whisper makes me faint, 

" More years had made me love thee more." 

But Death returns an answer sweet: 
" My sudden frost was sudden gain. 
And gave all ripeness to the grain 

It might have drawn from after-heat." 



I w^AGE not any feud with Death 

For changes wrouglit on form and face; 
No lower life that earth's embrace 

May breed with him can fright my faith. 

Eternal process moving on, 

From state to state the spirit walks; 

And these are but the shatter'd stalks, 
Or ruin'd clirysalis of one. 

Nor blame I Death, because he bare 
The use of virtue out of earth: 
I know transplanted human worth 

Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. 

For this alone on Death I wreak 

The wrath that garners in my hearty 
He put our lives so far apart 

We cannot hear each other speak. 



.lt.^..-^^i:S^^^.--.^T>;-.<^., 




' Ere these, have clothed their branch/ bowers." 

Seepage 4^3. 



IN MBMORIAM. 457 



LXXXIII. 

Dip down upon the northern shore, 
O sweet new-year delaying long: 
Tliou doest expectant nature wrong; 

Delaying long, dchiy no more. 

What stays thee from the clouded noons, 
Thy sweetness from its proper place? 
Can trouble live with April days. 

Or sadness in the summer moons? 

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire. 
The little speedwell's darling blue. 
Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew. 

Laburnums, dropping wells of fire. 

O thou, new-year, delaying long, 
Delayest the sorrow in my blood. 
That longs to burst a frozen bud; 

And flood a freslier throat with song. 



LXXXIV. 

When I contemplate all alone 

The life that had been thine below. 
And fixed my thoughts on all the glow 

To which thy crescent would have grown; 

I see thee sitting crown'd with good, 
A central warmth diflFusing bliss 
In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss, 

On all the branches of thy blood; 

Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine; 
For now the day was drawing on 
When thou should'st link thy life with one 

Of mine own house, and boys of thine 

Had babbled " Uncle" on my knee; 
But that remorseless iron hour 



458 IN MEMORIAM. 



Made cypress of her orange-flower, 
Despair of Hope, and earth of thee. 

I seem to meet their least desire, 

To clap their cheeks, to call them mine. 
I see their unborn faces shine 

Beside the never-lighted fire. 

I see myself an honor'd guest. 
Thy partner in the flowery walk 
Of letters, genial t.able-talk. 

Or deep dispute, and graceful jest; 

While now thy prosperous labor fills 
The lips of men with honest praise, 
And sun bj' siui the happy days 

Descend below the golden hills 

With promise of a morn as fair; 

And all the train of bounteous hours 
Conduct by paths of growing powers, 

To reverence and the silver hair; 

Till slowly worn her earthly robe. 
Her lavish mission richly wrought. 
Leaving great legacies of thought. 

Thy spirit should fail from off the globe; 

What time mine own might also flee, 
As link'd with thine in love and fate. 
And, hovering o'er the dolorous strait 

To the other shore, involv'd in thee. 

Arrive at last the blessed goal 
And He that died in Holy Land 
Would reach us out the shining hand. 

And take us as a single soul. 

What reed was that on which I leant? 
Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake 
The old bitterness again, and break 

The low beginnings of content? 



IN MEMORIAM. 459 



LXXXV. 

This truth came borne W\Xh bier and pall, 
I felt it, when I sorrow'd most, 
'Tis better to have loved and lost, 

Than never to have loved at all — 

O true in word, and tried in deed. 
Demanding, so to bring relief 
To this which is our common grief. 

What kind of life is that I lead; 

And whether trust in things above 
Be dimm'd of sorrow or sustain'd; 
And whether love for him have drain'd 

My capabilities of love; 

Your words have virtue such as draws 
A faithful answer from the breast, 
Thro' light reproaches, half exprest, 

And loyal unto kindly laws. 

Mv blood an even tenor kept, 

Till on mine ear this message falls 
That in Vienna's fatal walls 

God's finger touch'd him, and he slept. 

The great Intelligences fair 

That range above our mortal state. 
In circle round the blessed gate, 

Receiv'd and gave him welcome there; 

And led him thro' the blissful climes, 
And show'd him in the fountain fresh 
All knowledge that the sons of flesh 

Shall gather in the cycled times. 

But I remain'd, whose hopes were dim, 

Whose life, whose thoughts were little worth, 
To wander on a darken'd earth. 

Where all things round me breathed of him. 



480 IJV MBMORTAM. 



O friendship, equal-pois'd control, 

O heart, with kindliest motion warm, 

sacied essence, other form, 

solemn ghost, O crowned soul! 

Yet none could better know than I, 
Ho\v much of act at human hands 
The sense of human will demands 

Bv \vhich \ve dare to li\e or die. 

Whatever way mvdays decline, 

1 felt and feel tho' left alone, 
His being working in mine own. 

The footsteps of his life in mine; 

A life that all the Muses deck'd 

With gifts of grace, that might express 
All-comprehensive tenderness. 

All-subtilizing intellect: 

And so nl^' passion hath not svverv'd 
To works of weakness, but I find 
An image comforting the mind, 

And in my grief a strength reserv'd. 

Likewise the imaginative woe, 

That loved to handle spiritual strife. 
Diffused the shock thro' all my life. 

But in the present broke the blow. 

My pulses therefore beat again 
For other friends that once I met; 
Nor can it suit me to forget 

The mighty hope that makes us men. 

1 woo your love: I count it crime 
To mourn for an)- overmuch; 
I, the divided half of such 

A friendship as had master'd Time; 

Which masters Time indeed, and is 
Eternal, separate from fears; 



IN MEMORIAM. 461 



The all-assuming months and years, 
Can take no part away from this: 

But Summer on the steaming floods, 

And Spring that swells the narrow brooks, 
And Autumn, with a noise of rooks. 

That gather in the waning woods, 

And every pulse of wind and wave 
Recalls, in change of light or gloom. 
My old affection of the tomb. 

And my prime passion in the grave: 

My old affection of the tomb, 

A part of stillness, yearns to speak : 
" Arise, and get thee forth and seek 

A friendship for the years to come. 

"I watch thee from the quiet shore; 

Thy spirit up to mine can reach; 

But in dear words of human speech 
We two coinmunicate no more." 

And I, " Can clouds of nature stain 
The starry clearness of the free ? 
How is it? Canst thou feel for me 

Some painless sympathy with pain?" 

And lightly does the whisper fall : 
" 'Tis hard for thee to fiithom this: 
I triumph in conclusive bliss, 

And that serene result of all." 

So hold I commerce with the dead ; 

Or so methinks the dead would say; 

Or so shall grief with symbols play. 
And pining life be fancy-fed. 

Now looking to some settled end, 

That these things pass, and I shall prove 
A meeting somewhere, love with love, 

I crave your pardon, O my friend ; 



462 



IN MEMORIAM. 



If not so fresh, with love as true, 
I, clasping brother-hands, aver 
I could not, if I would, transfer 

The whole I felt for him to you. 

For \vhich be they that hold apart 
The promise of the golden hours? 
First love, first friendship, equal powers, 

That marr}' with the virgin heart. 

Still mine, that cannot but deplore. 
That beats within a lonely place. 
That yet remembers his embrace, 

But at his footstep leaps no more. 

My heart, tho' widow'd, ma}' not rest 
Quite in the love of what is gone, 
But seeks to beat in time vvitli one 

That warms another living breast. 




Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, 
Knowing the primrose yet is dearj 



IN MEMORIAM. 463 



The primrose of the later year, 
As not unlike to that of Spring. 

LXXXVI. 

Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, 
That rollest from the gorgeous gloom 
Of evening over brake and bloom 

And meadow, slowly breathing bare 

The round of space, and rapt below 
Thro' all the dewy-tassell'd wood. 
And shadowing down the horned flood 

In ripples, fan my brows and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 
The full new life that feeds thy breath 
Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death, 

111 brethren let the fancy fly 

From belt to belt of ciimson seas 
On leagues of odor streaming far, 
To where in yonder orient star 

A hundred spirits whisper " Peace." 

LXXXVII. 

I PAST beside the reverend walls 
In which of old I wore the gown; 
I roved at random tliro' the town, 

And saw the tumult of the halls; 

And heard once more in college fanes 
The storm their iiigh-built organs make. 
And thunder-music, rolling, shake 

The prophets blazon'd on the panes; 

And caught once more the distant shout. 
The measur'd pulse of racing oars 
Among the willows; paced the shores 

And many abridge, and all about 



464 IN MEMORIAM. 



The same gray flats again, and felt 
The same, but not the same; and last 
Up that long walk of limes I past 

To see the rooms in which he dwelt. 

Another name was on the door: 
I Hnger'd; all within was noise 
Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys 

That crash'd the glass and beat the floor; 

Where once we held debate, a band 
Of youthful friends, on mind and art. 
And labor, and the changing mart. 

And all the framework of the land; 

When one would aiin an arrow fair. 
But send it slackly from the string; 
And one would pierce an outward ring, 

And one an inner, here and there; 

And last the master-bowman, he 

Would cleave the mark. A willing ear 
We lent him. Who, but hung to hear 

The rapt oration flowing free 

From point to point, with power and grace 
And music in the bounds of law, 
To those conclusions when we saw^ 

The God within him light his fiice. 

And seem to lift the form, and glow 

In azure orbits heavenly-wise; 

And over those ethereal eyes 
The bar of Michael Angelo. 



LXXXVIII. 

Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet. 
Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks, 
O tell me where the senses mix, 

O tell me where the passions meet. 



IJSr MEMORIAM. 



465 



Whence rat'iate : fierce extremes employ 

Thy spirits in the darkening leaf, 
And in the midmost heart of grief 
Thy passion clasps a secret joy : 

And I — my harp would prelude woe — 
I cannot all command the strings; 
The glory of the sun of things 

Will flash along the chords and go. 




JLXXXIX. 

WiTCH-El-jMS that counterchange the floor 
Of this flat dawn with dusk and bright ; 
And thou, with all thy breadth and height 

Of foliage, towering sycamore; 

How often, hither wandering down. 
My Arthur found your shadows fair, 
And shook to all the liberal air 

The dust and din and steam of town: 



80 



He brought an eye for ail he saw ; 

He mixt in all our simple sports; 

They pleas'd him, fresh from broiling courts 
And dusfy purlieus of the law. 



466 IN MEMORIAM. 



O jov to him in this retreat, 
I m mantled in ambrosial dark, 
To drink the cooler air, and mark 

The landscape winking thro' the heat: 

O sound to rout the brood of cares, 
The sweep of scythe in morning dew, 
The gust that round the garden flew, 

And tumbled half the mellowing pears! 

O bliss, when all in circle drawn 
About him, heart and ear were fed 
To hear him, as he lay and read 

The Tuscan'poet on the lawn: 

Or in the all-golden aflernoon 
A guest, or happy sister, sung. 
Or here she brought the harp and flung 

A ballad to the brightening moon: 

Nor less it pleased in livelier moods. 
Beyond the bounding hill to stray. 
And break the livelong summer day 

With banquet in the distant woods; 

Whereat we glanc'd from theme to theme, 
DIscuss'd the books to love or hate. 
Or touch'd the changes of the state. 

Or threaded some Socratic dream* 

But if I prais'd the bus)- town. 
He loved to rail against it still, 
For " ground in 3-onder social mill 

We rub each other's angles down, 

"And merge,"' he said, " in form and gloss 
The picturesque of man and man." 
We taik'd: the stream beneath us ran 

The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss, 

Or cool'd within the glooming wave 
And last, returnmg from afar, 



IN MEMORIAM. 467 



Before the crimson-circled star 
Had fall'ii into her father's grave, 

And brushing ankle-deep in flowers, 
We heard behind the woodbine veil 
The milk that bubbled in the pail. 

And buzzings of the honeyed hours. 

xc. 

He tasted love with half his mind, 
Nor ever drank the inviolate spring 
Where nighest heaven, who first could fling 

This bitter seed among mankind: 

That could the dead, whose dying eyes 
Were closed with wail, resume their life, 
They would but find in child and wife 

An iron welcome when they rise: 

'Twas well, indeed, when warm with wine, 
To pledge them with a kindly tear. 
To talk them o'er, to wish them here, 

To count their memories half divine: 

But if they came who passed awa}', 
Behold their brides in other hands; 
The hard heir strides about their lands, 

And will not yield them for a day. 

Yea, tho' their sons were none of these. 
Not less the yet-loved sire would make 
Confusion worse than death, and shake 

The pillars of domestic peace. 

Ah dear, but come thou back to me: 

Whate\er change the }ears have wrought 
I find not yet one lonely thought 

That cries against my wish for thee. 



468 JJV MEMORIAM. 



XCI. 

Whex rosy plumelets tuft the larch, 
And rarely pipes the mounted thrush: 
Or underneath the barren bush 

Flits by the sea-blue bird of March; 

Come, wear the form by which I know 
Thy spirit in time among thy peers; 
The hope of unaccomplish'd years 

Be large and lucid round thy brow. 

When summei's hoinly-mellowing change 
May breathe, with many roses sweet. 
Upon the thousand waves of wheat, 

That ripple round the lonely grange; 

Come: not in watches of the night. 

But where the sunbeam broodeth warm, 
Come, beauteous in thine after form, 

And like a finer light in light. 



If any vision should reveal 

Thy likeness, I might count it vain, 
As but the canker of the brain: 

Yea, tho' it spake and made appeal 

To chances where our lots were cast 
Together in the days behind, 
I might but say, I hear a wind 

Of memory murmuring the past. 

Yea, tho' it spake and bared to view 
A fact; within the coming year; 
And tho' the months, revolving near. 

Should prove the phantom-warning true. 

They might not seem thy prophecies, 
But spiritual presentiments, 
And such lefraction of events 

As often rises ere they rise. 



IN MEMORIAM. 4(59 



I SHALL not see thee. Dare I say 
No spirit ever brake the band 
That stays him from the native land, 

Where first he waliv'd when cl;isp'd in clay? 

No visual shade of some one lost, 

But he, the Spirit himself, may come 
Where all the iierve of sense is numb; 

Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. 

O, therefore from thy sightless range 

With gods in unconjectur'd bliss, 

O, from the distance of the abyss 
Of ten-fold complicated change, 

Descend, and touch, and enter; hear 

The wish too strong for words to name; 
That in this blindness of the frame 

My Ghost may feel that thine is near. 

XCIV. 

How pure at heart and sound in head. 

With what divine affections bold, 

Should be the man whose thought Would hold 
An hour's communion with the dead. 

In vain shalt thou, or any, call 

The spirits fron^ their golden day. 
Except, like them, thou too canst say, 

M}' spirit is at peace with all. 

They haunt the silence of the breast, 

Imaginations calm and fair. 

The memory like a cloudless air, 
The conscience as a sea at rest: 

But when the heart is full of din. 
And doubt beside the portal waits, 
They can but listen at the gates, 

And hear the household jar within. 



470 /X MEMORIAM. 



% 



By night we lingerVl on the lawn, 

For underfoot the herb was dry; 

And senial warmth; and o'er the sky 
The silvery haze of summer drawn; 

And calm that let the tapers burn 
Unwavering; not a cricket chirr'd; 
The brook alone far-off was heard, 

And on the board the fluttering urn : 

And bats went round in fragrant skies. 
And wheel'd or lit the filmy shapes 
That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes 

And woolly breasts and beaded eyes* 

While now we sang old songs that peal'd 
From knoll to knoll, where, couch'd at ease. 
The white kine glimmer'd, and the trees 

Laid their dark arms about the field. 

But when those others, one by one. 

Withdrew themselves from me and night, 
And in the house light after light 

Went out, and I was all alone, 

A hunger seized my heart; I read 

Of that glad year that once had been. 

In those fall'n leaves which kept their green. 

The noble letters of the dead: 

And strangely on the silence broke 

The silent-speaknig words, and strange 
Was love's dumb cry defying change 

To test his worth; and strangely spoke 

The faith, the vigor, bold to dwell 

On doubts that drive the coward back. 
And keen thro' word)- snares to track 

Suggestion to her inmost cell. 



IN MEMORIAM. 471 



So word by word, and line by line, 

The dead man touch'd me from the past. 
And all at once it seem'd at last 

His living soul was flash'd on mine, 



And mine in his was wound, and wiiirl'd 
About empyreal heights of thought. 
And came on that which is, and caught 

The deep pulsations of the world, 

Ionian music measuring out 

The steps of Time, the shocks of Chance, 
The blows of Death. At length my trance 

Was cancell'd, stricken thro' with doubt. 

Vague words! but ah, how hard to frame 
In matter-moulded forms of speech, 
Or ev'n for nitellect to reach 

Thro' memory that which I became: 

Till now the doubtful dusk reveal'd 

The knoll once more where, couch'd at ease. 
The white kine glimmer'd, and the trees 

Laid their dark arms about the field: 

And suck'd from out the distant gloom, 
A breeze began to tremble o'er 
The large leaves of the sycamore, 

And fluctuate all the still perfume, 

And gathering freshlier overhead, 

Rock'd the fuU-foliaged elms, and .swung 
The heavy-folded rose, and flung 

The lilies to and fro, and said, 

" The dawn, the dawn," and died away; 
And East and West, without a breath, 
Mixt their dim lights, like life and death, 

To broaden into boundless day. 



472 IN MEMORIAM. 



You say, but with no touch of scorn, 

Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes 
Are tender over drowning- flies, 

You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. 

I know not: one indeed I kne\v 
In m;iny a subtle question versed, 
Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first, 

But ever strove to make it true : 

Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds. 

At last he beat his music out. 

There lives more faith in honest doubt, 
Believe me, than in half the creeds. 

He fouglit his doubts and gather'd strength, 
He would not make his judgment blmd, 
He faced the spectres of the mind 

And laid them ; thus he came at length 

To find a stronger faith his own; 

And Power was with him in the night, 
Which makes the darkness and tlie light, 

And dwells not in the light alone, 

But in the darkness and the cloud, 
As over Sinai's peaks of old. 
While Israel made their gods of gold, 

Altho' the trumpet blew so loud. 

XCVII. 

My love has talk'd with rocks and trees; 
He finds on misty mountain-ground 
His own vast shadow glory-crown d, 

He sees himself in all he sees. 

Two partners of a married life, — 

■ I look'd on these, and thought of thee 

In vastness and in mystery. 
And of my spirit as of a wife. 







" And the trees 
Laid their dark arms about the field." 

See /age ^yo. 



IN MEMOR/AM. 473 



These two — they dwelt with eye on eye, 
Their hearts of old have beat in tune, 
Their meetings made December June, 

Their every parting was to die. 

Their love has never past away; 
The days she never can forget 
Ai'e earnest that he loves her yet, 

Whate'er the faithless people say. 

Her life is lone, he sits apart. 

He loves her yet, she will not weep, 
Tho' rapt in matters dark and deep 

He seems to slight her simple heart. 

He thrids the hibyrinth of the mind. 
He reads the secret of the star, 
He seems so near and yet so far, 

He looks so cold: she thinks him kind. 

She keeps the gift of years before, 
A wither'd violet is her bliss; 
She knows not what his greatness is: 

For that, for all, she loves him more. 

For him she plays, to him she sings 
Of early faith and plighted vows; 
She knows but matters of the house. 

And he, he knows a thousand things. 

Her faith is fixt and cannot move, 

She darkly feels him great and wise. 
She dwells on him with faithful eyes, 

" I cannot understand : I love." 



You leave us: you will see the Rhine, 
And those fair hills I sail'd below. 
When I was there with him; and ^o 

By summer belts of wheat and vine 



474 IN MEMORIAM. 



To where he breathed his latest breath, 
That City. All her splendor seems 
No livelier than the wisp that gleams 

On Lethe in the eyes of Death. 

Let her great Danube rolling fair 
Enwind her isles, unmark'd of me: 
I have not seen, I will not see 

Vienna; rather dream that there, 

A treble darkness, Evil haunts 

The birth, the bridal; friend from friend 

Is oftener parted, fathers bend 
Above more graves, a thousand wants 

Gnar at the heels of men, and prey 

By each cold hearth, and sadness flings 
Her shadow on the blaze of kings: 

And yet myself have heard him say. 

That not in any mother town 

With statelier progress to and fro 
The double tides of chariots flow 

By park and suburb under brown 

Of lustier leaves: nor more content, 
He told me, lives in any crowd, 
When all is gay with lamps, and loud 

With sport and song, in booth and tent, 

Imperial halls, or open plain; 

And wheels the circled dance, and breaks 

The rocket molten into flakes 
Of crimson or in emerald rain. 



xcix. 

RiSEST thou thus, dim dawn, again, 
So loud with voices of the birds. 
So thick with lowings of the herds, 

Day, when I lost the flower of men; 



AV MEMORIAM. 



475 



Who tremblest tliro' thy darkling red 
On yon swoU'n brook that bubbles fast 




By meadoAvs breathing of the past, 
And woodlands holy to the dead; 

Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves 
A song that slights the coming care, 
And Autumn laying here and there 

A tier}' finger on the leaves; 

Who wakenest \vith thy balmy breath 
To myriads on the genial earth. 
Memories of bridal, or of birth. 

And unto myriads more, of death. 

O, wheresoever those maj' be, 

Betwixt the slumber of the jjoles, 
To-dav the}' count as kindred souls; 

They know me not, but mourn with me. 



I CLIMB the hill : from end to end 
Of all tlie landscape underneath, 
I find no place that does not breathe 

Some gracious memory of my friend ; 



476 ijf MEMORIAM. 



No gray old grange, or lonely fold, 
Or low morass and whispering reed, 
Or simple stile from mead to mead, 

Or sheepwalk up the windy wold; 

Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw 
That hears the latest linnet trill, 
Nor qiiany trench'd along the hill, 

And haunted by the wrangling daw; 

Nor runlet tinkling from the rock: 
Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves 
To left and right thro' meadowy curves, 

That feed the mothers of the flock ; 



But each has pleased a kindred eye, 
And each reflects a kindlier day; 
And, leaving these, to pass away, 

I think once more he seems to die. 



Un watch' D, the garden bough shall sway, 
The tender blossom flutter down, 
Unlov'd, that beech will gather brown, 

This maple burn itself away; 

Unlov'd, the siui-flower, shining fair, 

Ray round with flames her disc of seed. 
And many a rose-carnation feed 

With summer spice the liunnning aii'; 

Unlov'd, by many a sandy bar, 

The brook shall babble down the plain, 
At noon, or when the lesser wain 

Is twisting round the polar star; 

Uncared for, gird the windy grove. 

And flood the haunts of hern and crake; 
Or into silver arrows break 

The sailing moon in creek and cove; 



IN MEMORIAM. 477 



Till from the gai'den and the wild 

A fresh association blow, 

And year by year the landscape grow, 
Familiar to the stranger's child; 

As year by year the laborer tills 

His wonted glebe, or lops the glades; 
And year by year our memory fades 

From all the circle of the hills. 



CII. 

We leave the well-beloved place 
Where first we gazed upon the sky; 
The roofs, that heard our earliest cry. 

Will shelter one of stranger race. 

We go, but ere we go from home. 
As down the garden-walks I move, 
Two spirits of a diverse love 

Contend for loving masterdom. 

One whispers, thy boyhood sung 

Long since its matin song, and heard 
The low love-language of the bird 

In native hazels tassel-hung. 

The other answers, " Yea, but here 
Thy feet have strayed in after hours 
With thy lost friend among the bowers, 

And this hath made then, trebly dear." 

These two have striven half the day, 
And each prefers his separate clay, 
Poor rivals in a losing game, 

That will not yield each other wa}'. 

1 turn to go: my feet are set 

To leave the pleasant fields and farms; 

They mix in one another's arms 
To one pure image of regret. 



478 AV MEMORIAM. 



cm. 

Ox THAT last night before ^ve ^vent 
From out the doors where I was bred, 
I dream'd a vision of the dead, 

Which left my after-morn content. 

Methought I dwelt within a hall. 
And maidens with me: distant hills 
From hidden summits fed with rills 

A river sliding by the wall. 

The hall with harp and carol rang. 
They sang of what is wise and good 
And graceful. In the centre stood 

A statue veil'd, to which thev sang; 

And which, tho' veil'd, was known to me, 
The shape of him I lov'd, and love 
Forever: then fle\v in a dove 

And brought a summons from the sea: 

And when they learnt that I must go, 
They wept and wail'd, but led the way 
To where a little shallop lay 

At anchor in the flood below ; 

And on b)' many a level mead. 

And shadowing bluft that made the banks, 

We glided winding under ranks 
Of iris, and the golden reed ; 

And still as vaster grew the shore, 

And roU'd the floods in grander space, 
Tlie maidens gather'd strength and grace 

And presence, lordlier than before; 

And I m^•sel^, who sat apart 

And watch'd them, wax'd in every limb; 

I felt the thews of Anakim, 
The pulses of a Titan's heart; 



/.V MEMORIAM. 479 



As one would sing the death of war, 
And one would chant the history 
Of that great race which is to be, 

And one the shaping of a star; 

Until the forward creeping tides 
Began to foam, and we to draw, 
From deep to deep, to where we saw 

A great ship lift her shining sides. 

The man we loved was there on deck, 
But thrice as large as man he bent 
To greet us. Up the side I went, 

And fell in silence on his neck: 

Whereat those maidens with one mind 
Bewail'd their lot; I did them wrong: 
" We served thee here," they said, " so long, 

And wilt thou leave us now behind.? " 

So wrapt I was, they could not win 

An answer from my lips, but he 

Replying, " Enter likewise ye 
And go with us;" they enter'd in. 

And while the wind began to sweep 
A music out of sheet and shroud. 
We steer'd her toward a crimson cloud 

That landlike slept along the deep. 



The time draws near the birth of Christ: 
The moon is hid, the night is still; 
A single church below the hill 

Is pealing, folded in tiie mist. 

A single peal of bells below,- 

That wakens at this hour of rest 
A single murmur in the breast. 

That these are not the bells I know. 



480 IN MEMORIAM. 



Like stranger's voices here they sound, 
In lands w^here not a memory strays, 
Nor landmark breathes of other days, 

But all is new unhallow'd ground. 



This holly \>y the cottage-eave, 

To-night, ungather'd, shall it stand : 
We live within the stranger's land. 

And strangely falls our Christmas-eve. 

Our father's dust is left alone 
And silent under other snows: 
There in due time the woodbine blows, 

The violet comes, but we are gone. 

No more shall wayward grief abuse 
The genial hour with mask and mime; 
For change of place, like growth of time. 

Has broke the bond of dying use. 

Let cares that pett}- shadows cast, 

By which our lives are chief!}' proved, 
A little spare the night I loved. 

And hold if solemn to the past. 

But let no footstep beat the floor, 

Nor bowl nor wassail mantle warm; 
For who would keep an ancient form 

Thro' which the spirit breathes no more.' 

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast; 

Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown; 

No dance, no motion, save alone 
What lightens in the lucid east 

Of rising worlds bv yonder wood. 

Long sleeps the summer in the seed; 

Run out your measured arcs, and lead 
The closing cycle rich in good. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



481 




cvi. 

Ring out, wild hells, to the wild sky, 
Thy flying cloud, the frosty light: 
The year is dying in the night; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new. 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 
The year is going, let him go; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 



Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 
For those that here we see no more; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 



482 • IN MEMORIAM. 



Ring out a slowly dying cause, 

And ancient forms of party strife; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the \vant, the care, the sin. 
The faithless coldness of the times; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite; 
Ring in the love of truth and right. 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease; 
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold, 
Ring out the thousand wars of old, 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free. 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
Ring out the darkness of the land. 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

CVII. 

It is the day when he was born, 

A bitter day that early sank 

Behind a purple-frosty bank 
Of vapor, leaving night forlorn. 

The time admits not flowers or leaves 
To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies 
The blast of Nortii and East, and ice 

Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves. 

And bristles all the brakes and thorns 
To yon hard crescent, as she hangs 
Above tlie wood which grides and clangs 

Its leafless ribs and iron horns. 



IN MEMORIAM. 483 



Togetlier, in tlie drifts that pass 

To darken on the loUing brine 

Tliat breaks the coast. But fetch the wine, 
Arrange the board and brim tlie glass; 

Bring in great logs and let them lie, 

To make a solid core of heat; 

Be cheerful-ininded, talk and treat 
Of all things ev'n as he were by; 

We keep the day. With festal cheer, 
With books and music, surely we 
Will drink to him vvhate'er he be, 

And sing the songs he lov'd to hear. 

CVIII. 

I wiLi. not shut me from my kind, 

And, lest I stiffen into stone, 

I will not eat mv heart alone. 
Nor feed with sighs a passing wind; 

What profit lies in barren faith, 

And vacant yearning, tho' with might 
To scale tiie lieaven's highest height. 

Or dive below the wells of Death? 

What find I in the highest place, 

But mine own phantom chanting hymns.' 
And on the depths of Death there swims 

The reflex of a human face. 

I'll rather take what fruit may be 
Of sorrow under human skies: 
'Tis held that sorrow makes us wise. 

Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. 

cix. 

Heart-affluence in discursive talk 
From household fountains never dry; 
The critic clearness of an eye, 

That saw thro' all the Muses' walk; 



48i /,V MEMORIAM. 



Seraphic intellect and force 

To seize and throw the doubts of man; 

Impassion'd logic, which outran 
The hearer in its fiery course; 

High nature amorous of the good, 
But touch'd with no ascetic gloom ; 
And passion pure in snowv bloom 

Thro' all the years of April bloo 

A love of freedom rarely felt. 
Of freedom In her regal seat 
Of Englanil; not the schoolboy heat, 

The blind hysterics of the Celt; 

And manhood fused with female grace 
In such a sort, the child would twine 
A trustful hand, unask'd, in thine, 

And find his comfort in thy face; 

All these have been, and tliee mine eves 
Have look'd on: if they look'd in vain, 
My shame is greater who remain, 

Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 

ex. 

Thy converse drew us with delight, 
The men of rathe and riper years: 
The feeble soul, a haunt of fears, 

Forgot his weakness in th}' sight. 

On thee the loyal-hearted hung. 

The proud was half disarm'd of pride, 
Nor cared the serpent at thy side 

To flicker with his double tongue. 

The stern were mild when thou wert by, 
The flippant put himself to school 
And heard thee, and the brazen fool 

Was soften'd, and he knew not why; 



/A" MEMORIAM. 485 



While I, thv dearest, sat apart, 

And felt th\' triumph was as mine; 

And lov'd theiTi more, that thev were thine, 

The graceful tact, the Christian art; 



Not mine the sweetness or the skill, 
But mine the love that will not tire, 
And, born of love, the vague desire 

That spurs an imitative will. 



The churl in spirit, up or down 

Along the scale of ranks, thro' all. 
To him who grasps a golden ball, 

By blood a king, at heart a clown ; 

The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil 
His \vant in forms for fashion's sake. 
Will let his coltish nature break 

At seasons thro' the gilded pale: 

For who can always act? but he. 

To whoin a thousand memories call. 
Not being less but more than all 

The gentleness he seem'd to be, 

Best seem'd the thing he was, and join'd 
Each office of the social hour 
To noble manners, as the flower 

And native growth of noble mind; 

Nor ever narrowness or spite. 
Or villain fancy fleeting by, 
Drew in the expression of an eye. 

Where God and Nature met in light; 

And thus he bore without abuse 

The grand old name of gentleman. 
Defamed bv everv charlatan, 

And soil'd with all ignoble use. 



486 IN MEMORIAM. 



CXII. 

High wisdom holds my wisdom less, 
Tliat I, who gaze witli temperate eyes 
On glorious insufficiencies, 

Set light by narrower perfectness. 

But thou, that fillest all tlie room 
Of all my love, art reason why 
I seem to cast a careless eye 

On souls, the lesser lords of doom, 

For what wert thou? some novel power 
Sprang up forever at a touch. 
And hope could never hope too much, 

In watching thee from hour to hour. 

Large elements in order brought, 

And tracks of calm from tempest made, 
And world-wide fluctuation sway'd 

In vassal tides that follow'd thought. 



'Tis held that sorrow makes us \vise; 
Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee 
Which not alone had guided me, 

But serv'd the seasons that maj' rise; 

For can I doubt who knew thee keen 
In intellect, with force and skill 
To strive, to fashion, to fulfil — 

I doubt not what thou wouldst have been: 

A life in civic action warm, 

A soul on highest mission sent, 
A potent voice of Parliament, 

A pillar steadfast in the storm, 

Should licens'd boldness gather force. 
Becoming, when the time has birtli, 
A lever to uplift the earth 

And roll it in another course, 



IN MEMORIAM. 487 



With thousand shocks that come and go, 
With agonies, with energies, 
With overthrovvings, and vvitli cries. 

And undulations to and fro. 



cxiv. 

Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail 
Against her beauty? May she mix 
With men and prosper! Who shall fix 

Her pillars? Let her work prevail. 

But on her forehead sits a fire: 
She sets her forward countenance 
And leaps into the future chance. 

Submitting all things to desire. 

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain — 
She cannot fight tiie fear of death. 
What is she, cut from love and faith. 

But some wild Pallas from the brain 

Of Demons? fiery-hot to burst 
All barrieis in her onward race 
For power.. Let her know her place; 

She is the second, not the first. 

A higher hand must make her mild. 
If all be not in vain: and guide 
Her footsteps, moving side by side 

With wisdom, like the younger child: 

For she is earthly of the mind. 

But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. 
O friend, who camest to thy goal 

So early, leaving me behind, 

I would the great world grew like thee, 
Who grewest not alone in power 
And knowledge, but by year and hour 

In reverence and in charity. 



488 



IN MEMORIAM. 



No^v fades the last long streak of snow, 
Now bourgeons every maze of quick 
About the flowering squares, and thick 

By ashen roots the violets blow. 

Now rings the woodland loud and long, 
The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
And drown'd in yonder living blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 







Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, 
The flocks are whiter down the vale. 
And milkie:' every milky sail 

On winding scream or distant sea- 



777 MEMORIAM. 489 



Where now the seamevv pipes, or dives 
In yonder gleaming green, and fly 
The happy birds that change their sky 

To build and brood ; that live their lives 

From lancf to land: and in my breast 
Spring wakens too; and mv regret 
Becomes an April violet, 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 

cxvi. 

Is IT, then, regret for buried time 

That keenlier in sweet April wakes, 
And meets the year, and gives and takes 

The colors of the crescent prime? 

Not all: the songs, the stirring air. 
The life re-orient out of dust. 
Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust 

In that which made the world so fair. 

Not all regret: the face will shine 
Upon me, while I muse alone; 
Ami that dear voice I once have known. 

Still speak to me of mc and mine: 

Yet less of sorrow lives in me 

For days of happy commune dead; 
Less yearning for the friendship fled, 

Than some strong bond which is to be. 



O DAYS and hours, your work is this, 
To hold me from my proper place, 
A little while from his embrace, 

For fuller gain of alter bliss; 

That out of distance might ensue 
Desire of nearness doubly sweet. 
And unto meeting when we meet, 

Delight a hundred-fold accrue, 



490 IN MEMORIAM. 



For every grain of sand that runs, 
And every span of shade that steals. 
And everj' kiss of toothed wheels, 

And all the courses of the suns. 



CXVIII. 

CoxTEMPi.ATE all this work of Time, 
The giant laboring in his youth; 
Nor dream of human love and truth, 

As dying Nature's earth and lime; 

But trust that those we call the dead 
Are breathers of an ampler da}', 
For ever nobler ends. They say. 

The solid earth whereon we tread 

In tracts of fluent heat began, 

And grew to seeming-random forms. 
The seeming prey of cyclic storms, 

Till at the last arose the man ; 

Who thro\e and branch'd from clime to clime. 

The herald of a higher race, 

And of himself in higher place, 
If so he type this work of time 

Within himself, from more to more; 
Or, crown'd with attributes of woe 
Like glories, move his course, and show 

That life is not as idle ore, 

But iron dug from central gloom. 
And heated hot with burning fears. 
And dipt in baths of hissing tears. 

And batter'd with the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and fly 
The reeling Faun, the sensual feast; 
Move upward, working out the beast, 

And let the ape and tiger die. 



IN MEMORIAM. 491 



Doors, where my heart was used to beat 
So quickly, not as one that weeps 
I come once more; the city sleeps; 

I smell the meadow in the street; 

I hear a cliirp of birds; I see 

Betwixt the black fronts long-withdrawn 
A light-blue lane of early dawn, 

And think of early days and thee, 

And bless thee, for tiiy lips are bland, 
And bright the friendship of thine eye: 
And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh 

I take the pressure of thine hand. 

cxx. 

I TRUST I have not wasted breath; 
I think we are not wholly brain, 
Magnetic mockeries; not in vain. 

Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death; 

Not only cunning casts in clay: 

Let Science prove we are, and then 
What matters Science unto men. 

At least to me? I would not stay. 

Le' liim, the wiser man who springs 
Hereafter, up from childhood shape 
His action, like the greater ape, 

But I was bom to other things. 



CXXI. 

Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun. 
And ready, thou, to die ^vitll him 
Thou watchest all things ever dim 

And dimmer, and a glorv done: 



492 



/.\' MEMOR/AM 



The team is loosen'il from the ■wain, 
The boat is drawn upon the shore; 
Thou listenest to the closing- door, 

And life is darken'd in the brain. 




Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night, 
Bv thee the world's great work is heard 
Beginning, and the wakeful bird ; 

Behind thee comes the greater light: 

The market boat is on the stream, 
And voices hail it from the brink; 
Thou hear'st the village hammer clink, 

And see' St the moving of the team. 



Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name 
For what is one, the first, the last. 
Thou, like my present and my past, 

Thy place is changed; thou art the same. 



2N MEMORIAM. 493 



O, WAST thou witli me, dearest, then, 
Wliile I rose up against my doom, 
And yearn'd to burst the folded gloom, 

To bare the eternal Heavens again. 

To feel once more, in placid awe, 
The strong imagination roll 
A sphere of stars about my soul. 

In all her motion one with law. 

If thou wert with me, and the grave 
Divide us not, be with me now. 
And enter in at breast and brow, 

Till all my blood, a fuller wave. 

Be quicken'd with a livelier breath, 
And li\e an inconsiderate bo}-. 
As in the former flash of joy, 

I slip the thousrhts of life and death; 

Anil all the breeze of Fancy blows. 
And every dew-drop paints a bow, 
The wizard lightnings deeply glow. 

And every thought breaks out a rose. 



There rolls the deep where grew the tree. 

O earth, what changes thou hast seen! 

There where the long street roars, hath been 
The stillness of the central sea. 

The hills are shadows, and they flow 

From form to form, and nothing stands. 
They melt like mist, the solltl lands, 

Like clouds they shape themselves and go. 

But in my spirit will I dwell. 

And dream my dream, and hold it true; 

For tho' my lips may breathe adieu, 
1 cannot think the thing farewell. 



494 IN MEMORIAM. 



That which we dare invoke to bless; 

Our dealest faith; our ghastliest doubt; 

He, They, One, All; within, without; 
The Power in darkness \vhom we guess; 

I found Him not in world or sun. 
Or eagle's wing, or insect's eve; 
Nor thro' the questions men may try, 

The petty cobw^ebs we have spun: 

If e'er when faith had fall'n asleep, 
I heard a voice, " Believe no more," 
And heard an ever-breaking shoie 

Tliat tumbled in the Godless deep; 

A warmtli within tiie breast \voiild melt 
The freezing reasons' colder part, 
And like a man in wrath the heart 

Stood up and answer'd, " J have felt." 

No, like a child in doubt and fear: 

But that blind clamor made me wise; 
Then was I as a child that cries. 

But, crying, knows his father near; 

And what I am beheld again 

What is, and no man understands; 
And out of darkness came the hands 

That reach thro' nature, moulding men. 

cxxv. 

Whatever I have said or sung. 

Some bitter notes \wy harp would give. 
Yea, tiio' there often seem'd to live 

A contradiction on the tongue. 

Yet Hope had never lost her youth: 
She did but look thro' dimmer eves; 
Or Love but play'd with gracious lies 

Because he felt so fix'd in truth: 



IN MEMORIAM. 495 



And if the song were full of care, 
Ho breathed the spirit of the song; 
And if the words were sweet and strong, 

He set his royal signet there; 

Abiding with nie till I sail 

To seek thee on the mystic deeps, 
And this electric force, that keeps 

A thousand pulses dancing, fail. 

cxxvi. 

Love is and was my Lord and King, 
And in his presence I attend 
To hear the tidings of my friend, 

Which every hour his couriers bring. 

Love is and was my King and Lord, 
And will be, tho' as j'et I keep 
Within his court on earth, and sleep 

Encompass'd by his faithful guard. 

And hear at times a sentinel 

Who moves about from place to place. 
And whispers to the worlds of space, 

In the deep night, that all is well. 

cxxvii. 

And all is well, tho' faith and form 
Be sunder'd in the night of fear; 
Well roars the storm to those that hear 

A deeper voice across the storm, 

Proclaiming social truth shall spread. 
And justice, e'en tho' thrice again 
The red fool-fury of the Seine 

Should pile her barricades with dead. 

But ill for him that wears a crown. 
And him, the lazar, in his rags: 
They tremble, the sustaining crags; 

The spires of ice are toppled dov/n, 



496 IN MEMORIAM. 



And iT-.olteii up, and roar in flood; 
The fortress crashes from on high, 
The brute earth hghtens to the sky, 

And the great ^on sinks in blood. 

And coinpass'd by the fires of Hell ; 
While thou, dear spirit, happj' star, 
O'erlook'st the tumult from afar. 

And smilest, knowing all is well. 



The love tliat rose on stronger wings, 
Unpalsied when we met with Death, 
Is coinrade of the lesser faith 

That sees the course of human things. 

No doubt vast eddies in the flood 
Of onward time shall yet be made, 
And throned races may degrade; 

Yet, O ye mysteries of good. 

Wild Hours tiiat fly with Hope and Fear, 
If all your office had to do 
With old results that look like new; 

If this were all your inission here. 

To draw, to sheathe a useless sword. 
To fool the crowd with glorious lies. 
To cleave a creed in sects and cries. 

To change the bearing of a word. 

To shift an arbitrary power. 

To cramp the student at his death, 
To make old bareness picturesque 

And tuft with grass a feudal tower; 

Why then my scorn might well descend 
On vou and yours. I see in part 
That all, as in some piece of art. 

Is toil co-operant to an end. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



497 



CXXIX. 

Dear friend, for off, my lost desire, 
So far, so near in woe and weal ; 
O loved the most, when most I feel 

There is a lower and a higher; 

Known and unknown; human, divine; 

Sweet liuman hand and lips and eye; 

Dear heavenly friend that canst not die 
Aline, mine, forever, ever mine; 

Strange friend, past, present, and to be; 

Loved deeplier, darklier miderstood; 

Behold, I dream a dream of good. 
Anil mingle all the world with thee. 




Thy \'oice is on the rolling air; 

I hear thee where the waters run; 

Thou standest in the rising sun, 
And in the settinsr thou art fair. 



33 



AVhat art thou then? I cannot guess; 
But tho' I seem in star and flo\ver 
To feel thee some diffusive power, 

1 do not therefore love thee less: 



4y8 IJV MEMORIAM 



My love involves the love before; 

My love is vaster passion now ; 

Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou, 
I seem to love thee more and more. 

Far off thou art, but ever nigh; 

I have thee still, and I rejoice; 

I prosper, circled with thy voice; 
I shall not lose thee tho' I die. 

CXXXT. 

O LIVING will that shalt endure 

Wlien all that seems shall sufler shock, 
Rise in the spiritual rock, 

Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure, 

That we may lift from out of dust 
A voice as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquer'd years 

To one that with us works, and trusts. 

With faith that comes of self-control. 
The truths that never can be proved 
Until we close with all we loved. 

And all we flow from, soul in soul. 



O true and tried, so well and lonj^. 

Demand not thou a marriage lay; 

In that it is thy marriage day 
Is music more than any song. 

Nor have I felt so much of bliss 
Since first he told me that he loved 
A daughter of our house; nor proved 

Since that dark day a day like this: 

Tho' I since then have numlier'd o'er 

Some thrice three vears: they went and came. 
Remade the blood and chang'd the frame. 

And yet is love not less, but more; 



IN MEMOIilAM. 499 



No longer caiing to ciiibalin 
In dying songs a dead regret, 
But like a statue solid-set, 

And moulded in colossal calm. 

Regret is dead, but love is more 

Than in the summers that are flown, 
For 1 myself with these have grown 

To something greater than before; 

Which makes appear the songs I made 
As echoes out of weaker times, 
As half hut idle brawling rhymes, 

The sport of random sun and shade. 

But where is she, the bridal flower, 
That must be made a wife ere noon? 
She enters, glowing like the moon 

Of Eden on its briilal bower: 

On me she bends her blissful eyes. 

And then on thee; they meet thv look 
And brighten like the star that shook 

Betwixt the palms of paradise. 

O wlien lier life was yet in bud, 
He too foretold the perfect rose. 
For thee she grew, for thee she grows 

Forever, and as fair as good. 

And thou art worthy; full of power; 
As gentle; liberal-minded, great. 
Consistent; wearing all that weight 

Of learning lightly like a flower. 

But now set out: tiie moon is near, 
And I must give away the bride; 
She fears not, or with thee beside 

And me behind her, will not fear: 

For I that danced her on my knee, 

That watch'd her on !ier nurse's arm, 



500 



IN MBMORIAM. 



Thaf shielded all her life from h;irm, 
At last must part with her to thee; 

Now waiting to he made a wife, 
Her feet, my darling, on the dead; 
Their pensi\e tablets round iier head 

And the most living words of life 




Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, 
The " wilt thou " answer'd, and again 
The " wilt thou " ask'd, till out of twain 

Her sweet " I will " has made ve one. 



Now sign your names, which shall be read, 
Mute symbols of a joyful morn, 
By village eyes as yet unborn ; 

The names are sign'd, and overhead 



IN MEMORIAM. 501 



Begins the clash and clang that tells 
The joy to every wandering breeze, 
The blind wall rocks, and on the trees 

The dead leaf trembles to the bells. 

O happy hour, and hapjDier hours 
Await them. Many a merry face 
Salutes them — maidens of the place, 

That pelt us in the porch with flowers. 

O happy hour, behold the bride 

With him to whom her hand I gave. 
They leave the porch, they pass the grave 

That has to-day its sunny side. 

To-day the grave is bright for me, 
For them the light of life increas'd. 
Who stay to share the morning feast, 

Who rest to-night beside the sea. 

Let all my genial spirits advance 
To meet and greet a whiter sun ; 
My drooping memory will not shun 

The foaming grape of eastern France. 
i 

It circles round, and fancy plays, 

And hearts are warm'd, and faces bloom, 
As drinking health to bride and groom 

W^e wish them store of happy days. 

Nor count me all to blame if I 
Conjecture of a stiller guest. 
Perchance, perchance, among the rest, 

And, tho' in silence, wishing joy. 

But they must go, the time draws on. 
And those vvhite-favor'd horses wait; 
They rise, but linger; it is late; 

Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. 

A shade falls on us like the dark 
From little cloudlets on the grass, 



502 IN MEMORIAM. 



But sweeps away as out we pass 
To range the woods, to roam the park, 

Discussing how their courtship grew. 
And talk, of others that are wed. 
And how she look'd, and what she said, 

And back \\ e rome at fall of dew. 

Again the feast, the speech, the glee. 

The shade of passing thought, the wealth 
Of words and wit, the double health, 

The crowning cup, the three-tinies-three. 

And last the dance; — till I retire: 

Dumb is that tower which spake so loud, 
And high in heaven the streaming cloud, 

And on the downs a rising fire: 

Antl rise, O moon, fiom vontlcr down. 

Till o\er down and over dale 

All night the shining vapor sail 
And pass the silent-lighted town, 

The white-faced halls, the glancing rills, 
And catch at every mountain head, 
And o'er the friths that branch and spread 

Their sleeping silver tljro' the hills; 

And touch with shade the bridal doors. 
With tender gloom the roof, the wall; 
And breaking let the splendor fall 

To spangle all the happy shores 

By which they rest, and ocean sounds. 
And, star and system rolling past, 
A soul shall draw from out the vast 

And strike his being into bounds, 

And, mov'd thro' life of lower phase. 
Result in man be born and think. 
And act and love, a closer link 

Betwixt us and the crowning race 



IN MEMORIAM. 



503 



Of those that, eye to eye, shall look 

On knowledge; under whose command 
Is Earth and Earth's, and in their hand 

Is Nature like an open book; 

No longer half-akin to brute. 

For all we thought and loved and did, 
And hoped, and suffer'd, is but seed 

Of what in them is flower and fruit; 

Whereof the man, that with me trod 
This planet, was a noble type 
Appearing ere the times were ripe. 

That friend of mine who lives in God, 

That God, which ever lives and loves, 
One God, one law, one element, 
And one far-off divine event, 

To which the whole creation moves. 





THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 



505 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 




URY the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation, 
Let us burv the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty 
nation, 
j -^^-^ Mourning when their leaders fall, 
|iij^ Warriors carry the warrior's pall. 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 



Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore? 
Here, in streaming London's central roar. 
Let the sound of those he wrought for. 
And the feet of those he fought for, 
Echo round his bones forevermore. 

Lead out the pageant: sad and slow. 

As fits a imiversal woe, 

Let the long, long procession go, 

Ami let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, 

And let the mournful martial music blow; 

The last great Englisliman is low. 



Mourn, for to us he seems the last, 
Remembering all his greatness in the Past. 
No more in soldier fashion will he greet 
Witli lifted hand the gazer in the street. 
O friends, our chief state-oracle is dead: 
Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, 
The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute. 
Whole in himself, a common good. 
Mourn for the man of amplest influence. 
Yet clearest of ambitious crime. 
Our greatest vet with least pretence. 
Great in council and great in war, 
Foremost captain of his time. 
Rich in saving common-sense. 



506 ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 



And, as the greatest only are, 

In his simplicity sublime. 

O good gray head which all men knew, 

O voice from which their omens all men drew, 

O iron nerve to true occasion true, 

O fall'n at length that tower of strength 

Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew! 

Such was he whom we deplore. 

The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 

The great World-victor's victor will be seen no more. 

All is over and done: 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

England, for thy son. 

Let the bell be toU'd. 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

And render him to the mould. 

Under the cross of gold 

That shines over city and river, 

There he shall rest forever 

Among the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be toll'd : 

And a reverent people behold 

The towering car, the sable steeds: 

Bright let it be witli bis blazon'd deeds, 

Dark in its funeral fold. 

Let the bell be toll'd: 

And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd; 

And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll'd 

Thro' the dome of the golden cross; 

And the volleying cannon thunder his loss; 

He knew their voices of old. 

For many a time in many a clime 

His captain's-ear has heard them boom 

Bellowing victory, bellowing doom: 

When he with those deep voices wrought. 

Guarding realms and kings from shame; 

With those deep voices our dead captain taught 

The tyrant, and asserts his claim 

In that dread sound to the great name. 

Which he has worn so pure of blame, 

In praise and in dispraise the same, 

A man of well-attemper'd frame. 

O civic Muse, to such a name. 



-m- 



^^r 




"Till o'er the hills her eagles flew. 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 507 



To such a name fur ages long, 
To such a name, 

Preserve a broad approach of fame. 
And ever-ringing avenues of song. 

Who is he that conictli, like an honor'd guest. 

With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest. 

With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest? 

Might}' Seaman, this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea. 

Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man, 

The gi-eatest sailor since our world began. 

Now, to the roll of muffled drums. 

To thee the greatest soldier comes; 

For this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea; 

His foes were thine; he kept us free; 

O give him welcome, this is he, 

Worthy of our gorgeous rites. 

And worthy to be laid by thee; 

For this is England's greatest son, 

He thatgain'd a hundred fights, 

Nor ever lost an English gun; 

This is he that f:ir avvaj- 

Against the myriads of Assaye 

Clash'd with his fiery few and won; 

And underneath another sun. 

Warring on a later day. 

Round affrighted Lisbon drew 

The treble works, the vast designs 

Of his labor'd rampart-lines. 

Where he greatly stood at bay. 

Whence he issued forth anew, 

And ever great and greater grew. 

Beating from the wasted vines 

Back to France her banded swarms, 

Back to France with countless blows, 

Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 

Past the Pyrenean pines, 

Follow'd up in valley and glen 

With blare of bugle, clamor of men, 

Roll of cannon and clash of arms, 

And England pouring on her foes. 

Such a war had such a close. 



508 ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 

Again their ravening eagle rose 

In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing wings, 

And barking for the thrones of kings; 

Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown 

On that loud Sabbath shook the spoiler down; 

A day of onsets of despair! 

Dash'd on every rocky square 

Their surging charges foam'd themselves away; 

Last, the Prussian trumpet blew; 

Thro' the long-tormented air 

Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray. 

And down we swept and charg'd and overthrew. 

So great a soldier taught us there. 

What long-enduring heart could do 

In that world-earthquake, Waterloo! 

Mighty Seaman, tender and true. 

And pure as he from taint of cravem guile, 

O Savior of the silver-coasted isle, 

O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 

If aught of things that here befall 

Touch spirit among things divine, 

If love of country move thee there at all. 

Be glad, because liis bones are laid by thine! 

And thro' the centuries let a people's voice 

In full acclaim, 

A people's voice, 

The proof and echo of all iiuman fame, 

A people's voice, when they lejoice 

At civic revel and pomp and game. 

Attest their great commander's claim 

With honor, honor, honor, honor to him. 

Eternal honor to his name. 

A people's voice! we are a people yet. 
Tho' all men else their nobler dreams forget. 
Confused by brainless inobs and lawless Powers; 
Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set 
His Saxon in blown seas and storming showers, 
We have a voice, with which to pay the debt 
Of boundless love and reverence and regret 
To those great men who fought, and kept it ours. 
And keep it ours, O God, from brute control; 
O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul 
Of Europe, keep our noble England whole. 
And save the one true seed of freedom sown 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 509 



Betwixt a people and their ancient throne, 

That sober freedom out of which there sprirtgs 

Our loyal passion for our temperate kings; 

For, saving that, ye lielp to save mankind 

Till puhlic wrong- be crumbled into dust, 

And drill the raw world for the march of mind, 

Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just. 

But wiidv no more in slothful overtrusto 

Remember him who led your hosts; 

He bade you guartl the sacred coasts. 

Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall; 

His voice is silent in your council-hall 

Forever; and whatever tempests lower 

Forever silent; even if they broke 

In thunder, silent; yet remember all 

He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke; 

Who never sold the truth to serve the hour. 

Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power; 

Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow 

Thro' either babbling world of high and low ; 

Whose life was work, whose language rife 

With rugged maxims hewn from life; 

Who never spoke against a foe; 

Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke 

All great self-seekeis trampling on the right: 

Trutii-teller was our England's Alfred named; 

Truth-lover was our English Duke; 

Whatever record leap to light 

He never shall be shamed. 

Lo, the leader in these glorious wars 

Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 

Follow'd by the brave of other lands. 

He, on whom from both her open hands 

Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars. 

And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. 

Yea, let all good things await 

Him who cares not to be great. 

But as he saves or serves the state. 

Not once or twice in our rough island-story, 

The path of duty was the way to glory: 

He that walks it, only thirsting 

For the right, and learns to deaden 

Love of self, before his journey closes, 

He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting: 



510 ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 

Into -flossy purples, whicli outrcddeii 

All voluptuous garden-roses. 

Not once or twice in our fair island-storv, 

The path' of duty was the way to glory: 

He, that ever following lie commands, 

On with toil of heart and knees and hands. 

Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won 

His path upward, and prevail'd, 

Shall find the toppling crags of Dutv scaletl 

Are close upon tlie shining table-lands 

To wiiich our God Himself is moon and sun. 

Such was he: his v>fork is done. 

But wliilo the races of mankind endin-e. 

Let his great examj^le stand 

Colossal, seen of e\erv land, 

And keep the soldier firm, the statesman jjure: 

Till in all lands antl tiiro' all human storv 

The path of dutv be the way to glory: 

And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame 

For many and many an age proclaim 

At civic revel and pomp and game. 

And when the long-illumined cities flame, 

Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame. 

With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, 

Eternal honor to his name. 

Peace, his triumph will be sung 

By some yet unnioulded tongue 

Far on in summers that we shall not see: 

Peace, it is a day of pain 

For one about whose patriarclial knee 

Late the little children clung: 

O peace, it is a day of pain 

For one, upon whose hand and heart and brain 

Once the weight and fate of Emope hung. 

Ours the pain, be his the gain! 

More than is of man's degree 

Must be with us, watching here 

At this, our great solemnity. 

Whom we see not we revere. 

We revere, and we refrain 

From talk of battles loud and vain, 

And brawling memories all too free 

For such a wild iiimiility 

As befits a solemn fane; 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 511 

We revere, and while we hear 
The tides of Music's golden sea 
Setting toward eternity, 
UpHfted high in heart and hope are we, 
Until we doubt not that for one so true 
There must be other nobler work to do 
Than when he fought at Waterloo, 
And \^ictor lie must ever be. 
For the' the Giant Ages heave the hill 
And break the shore, and evermore 
Make and break, and work their will; 
Tho' world on world in myriad myriads roll 
Round us, each ^vith different powers. 
And other forms of life than ours, 
What know we greater than the soul? 
On God and Godlike men we build our trust. 
Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears: 
The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears: 
The black earth yawns: the inortal disappears; 
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; 
He is gone ^vho seem'd so great. — 
Gone; but nothing can bereave him 
Of the force he made his own 
Being here, and we believe him 
Something far advanced in state, 
And that he wears a truer crown 
Than any wreath that man can weave him. 
But speak no more of his renown, 
Laj' vour earthly fancies down. 
And in the vast cathedral leave him. 
God accept him, Christ receive him. 
1852. 








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MA UD. 



515 



MAUD: A MONODRAMA. 






<^^;V*"*''^' 





HATE the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, 

Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red 

heat 
The red rihb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood, 
And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers 

" Death." 



For tliere in the ghastly pit long since a body was found, 

His who had given me life — O father! O God! was it well? 

Mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, and dinted into the giound 
There 3'et lies the rock that fell with him when he fell 

Did he fling himself down? who knows? for avast speculation had 

fail'd, 
And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and everwann'd with despair, 
And out he walk'd when the wind like a broken worldling wail'd. 
And the flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove thro' the air. 



I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were stirr'd 
By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trail'd, by a whisper'd fright, 
And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my heart as I heard 
The shrill-edg'd shriek of a mother divide the shuddering niglit. 

Villany somewhere! whose? One says, we are villains all. 
Not he: his honest fame should at least by me be maintain'd: 
But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and the Hall, 
Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us flaccid and drain'd. 



Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace? we have made them a 

curse, 
Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own; 
And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse 
Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone? 



516 



MA UD. 



But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of mind. 
When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's ware or his word? 
Is it peace or war? Civil war, as I think, and that of a kind 
The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword. 

Sooner or later I too may passively take the print 

Of the golden age — why not? I have neither hope nor trust; 

May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint, 

Cheat and be cheated, and die: who knows? we are ashes and dust. 

Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone bv. 

When the poor are hovell'd and hustled together, each sex, like swine, 

When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie; 

Peace in her vineyard — yes! — but a company forges the wine. 

And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's head, 
Till the filthv by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife. 
While chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the pooi' for bread. 
And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life. 

And Sleep must lie down arm'd, foi' tlie vilhmous centre-bits 
Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless nights. 
While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps, as he sits 
To pestle a poison'd poison behind his crimson lights. 

When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee. 
And Tiinour-Mammon grins on a pile of children's bones, 
Is it peaca or war? better, war! loud war by land and bv sea, 
War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones. 

For I trust if an enemv's fleet came vondcr round bv the liill, 

And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foam. 

That the smooth-fixced snub-nosed rogue would leap from his counter and 

till, 
And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating vai'dwand, home — 

What! am I raging alone as my father raged in his mood? 
Must / too creep to the hollow and dash myself down and die 
Rather than hold by the law that I made, nevermore to brood 
On a horror of shatter'd limbs and a wretch'd swindler's Ire? 

W^ould there be sorrow for me? there was love in the passionate shriek. 
Love for the silent thing that had made false haste to the grave — 



MA UD. 



51^ 



Wrapt in :i cloak, as I saw liim, antl thought he would rise and speak 
And rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as he used to rave. 

I am sick of the Hall antl the hill, I am sick of the niocr and the main. 
Why should I stay? can a sweeter chance ever come to me liere? 
O, having the nerves of motion as well as the nerves of pain, 
Were it not wise if I fled from the place and the pit and the fear? 







There are workmen up at the Hall: they are coming hack from abroad; 

The dark old place will be gilt by tlie touch of a millionaire: 

I have heard, I know not whence, of the singular beauty of Maud; 

I play'd with tlie girl when a child; she promised then to be fair. 



Maud with her venturous climbings and tumbles and childish escapes, 
Maud the delight of the village, the ringing joy of the Hall, 
Maud with her sweet purse-mouth when my father dangled the grapes, 
Maud the beloved of my mother, the moon-faced darling of all, — 



318 MAUD. 

What is she now? My dreams are bad. She may bring me a curse. 
No, there is fatter game on the moor; she will let me alone. 
Thanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman or man be the worse. 
I will bury myself in my books, and the Devil may pipe to his own. 



Long have T sigh'd for a calm: God grant I may find it at last! 

It ^vill nex'er be broken b}' Maud, she has neither savor nor salt, 

But a cold and clear-cut face, as I found when her carriage past, 

Perfectly beautiful: let it be granted her: where is the fault? 

All that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to be seen) 

Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null, 

Dead perfection, no more; nothing more, if it had not been 

For a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour's defect of the rose. 

Or an underlip, you mav call it a little too ripe, too full, 

Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a sensitive nose. 

From which I escaped heart-free, with the least little touch of spleen. 



III. 



Cold and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly meek. 
Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful folly was drown'd. 
Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash dead on the cheek. 
Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom profound ; 
Womanlike, taking revenge too deep for a transient wrong 
Done 43ut in thought to your beauty, and ever as pale as before 
Growing and fading and growing upon me without a sound, 
Luminous, gemlike, ghostlike, deathlike, half the night long 
Growing and fading and growing, till I could bear it no more. 
But arose, and all by myself in my own dark garden ground. 
Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung shipwrecking roar. 
Now to the scream of a madden'd beach dragg'd down by the wave, 
Walk'd in a xvintry wind by a ghastly glimmer, and found 
The shining daffodil dead, and Orion low in his grave. 



A MILLION emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime 
In the little grove where I sit — ah, wherefore cannot I be 
Like things of the season gay, like the bountiful season bland, 
When the far-off sail is blown by the breeze of a softer clime. 



MAUD. 519 

Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a crescent of sea, 
• The silent sapphire-spangled marriage ring of the land? 

Below me, there, is the village, and looks how quiet and small! 
And yet bubbles o'er like a city, with gossip, scandal, and spite; 
And Jack on his alehouse bench iias as many lies as a Czar; 
And here on the landward side, by a red rock, glimmers the Hall; 
And up in the high Hall-garden I see her pass like a light; 
But sorrow seize me if ever that light be my leading star! 

When have I bow'd to hei- tather, the wrinkled head of the race? 
I met her to-day with her brother but not to her brother I bow'd; 
I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode by on the moor; 
But the fire of a foolish pride flash'd over her beautiful face. 

child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, in being so proud; 
Your father has wealth well-gotten, and I am nameless and poor. 

1 keep but a man and a maiil, ever ready to slander and steal; 
I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like a stoic, or like 

A wiser epicurean, and let the world have its way: 

For nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal; 

The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow spear'd by the shrike, 

And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey. 

We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair in her flower; 
Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen hand at a game 
That pushes us off from the board, and others ever succeed? 
Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for an hour; 
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother's shame; 
However we brave it out, we men are a little breed. 

A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master of Earth, 
For him did his high sun flame, and his river billowing ran, 
And he felt himself in his force to be Nature's crowning race. 
As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe for his birth, 
So many a million of ages have gone to the making of man : 
He now is first, but is he the last? is he not too base? 

The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and vain. 
An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor; 
The passionate heart of the poet is whirl'd into folly and vice. 
I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate brain; 



520 MA UD. 

For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, were more 
Than to walk all day like the Sultan of old in a garden of spice. 

For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil. 

Who knows the ways of the world, how God will bring them about? 

Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is wide. 

Shall I weep if a Poland fall? shall I shriek if a Hungary fail.^ 

Or an infant civilization be ruled with rod or with knout.' 

I have not made the world, and He that made it will guide. 

Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland ways. 

Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be my lot, 

Far-off from the clamor of liars belied in the hubbub of lies; 

From the long-neck'd geese of the world that are ever hissing dispraise, 

JBecause their natures are little, and, whether he heed it or not, 

Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies. 

And most of all would I floe from the cruel madness of love, 
The honey of jioison-flowers and all the measureless ill. 
Ah Maud, you milkwhite fawn, you are all unmeet for a wife, 
/our mother is mute in her grave as her image in inarblc above; 
Your father is ever in London, 3'ou wander about at your will; 
You have but fed on the roses, and lain in the lilies of life. 



V. 



A VOICE by the cedar-tree 

In the meadow under the Hall! 

She is singing an air that is known to me, 

A passionate ballad gallant and gay, 

A martial song like a trumpet's call! 

Singing alone in the morning of life. 

In the happy morning of life and of May, 

Singing of men that in battle array, 

Ready in heart and ready in hand, 

March with banner and bugle and fife 

To the death, for their native land. 

Maud with her exquisite face. 
And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sk_v, 
And feet like sunny gems on an English green, 
Maud in the light of her youth and her grace, 
Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die, 



AfA UD. 



521 



Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean. 
And myself so languid and base. 

Silence, beautiful voice! 

Be still, for you only trouble the mind 

With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, 

A glory I shall not find. 

Still! I will hear you no more, 

For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice 

But to move to the meadow and fall before 

Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore. 

Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind, 

Not her, not her, but a voice. 



^-^TtnV 



N 










VI. 



Morning arises stormv and pale, 

No sun, but a wannish glare 

In fold upon fold of hueless cloud, 

And the budded peaks of the wood are bow'd 

Caught and cufF'd by the gale: 

I had fancied it would be fair. 



522 MA UD. 



Whom but Maud should I meet 

Last night, when the sunset burn'd 

On the blossom'd gable-ends 

At the head of the village street, 

Whom but Maud should I meet? 

And she touch'd m3' hand with a smile so sweet 

She made me divine amends 

For a courtesy not return'd. 

And thus a delicate spark 

Of glowing and growing light 

Thro' the livelong hours of the dark 

Kept itself warm in the heart of my dreams, 

Ready to burst in a color'd flame; 

Till at last, when the morning came 

In a cloud, it faded, and seems 

But an ashen-gray delight. 

What if with her sunnj' hair. 

And smile as sunny as cold, 

She meant to weave me a snare 

Of some coquettish deceit, 

Cleopatra-like as of old 

To entangle me when we met, 

To have her lion roll in a silken net, 

And fawn at a victor's feet. 

Ah, what shall I be at fifty 

Should Nature keep ipe alive, 

If I find the world so bitter 

When I am but twenty-five? 

Yet, if she were not a cheat. 

If Maud were all that she seem'd. 

And her smile were all that I dream'd 

Then the world were not so bitter 

But a smile could make it sweet. 

What if tho' her eye seem'd full 
Of a kind intent to me, 
What if that dandy despot, he, 
That jewell'd mass of millinery, 
That oil'd and curl'd Assyrian Bull 
Sirtelling of musk and of insolence, 
Her brother, from whom I keep aloof, 
Who wants the finer politic sense 



AfA UD. 523 

To mask, tho' but in liis own behoof, 
With a glassy smile his brutal scorn, — 
What if he had told her yestermorn 
How prettily for his own sweet sake 
A face of tenderness might be feign'd, 
And a moist mirage in desert eyes, 
That so, when the rotten hustings shake 
In another month to his brazen lies, 
A wretched vote may be gain'd. 

For a raven ever croaks, at my side, 

Keep watch and ward, keep watch and ward. 

Or thou wilt prove their tool. 

Yea, too, myself from myself I guard. 

For often a man's own angry pride 

Is cap and bells for a fool. 

Perhaps the smile and tender tone 

Came out of her pitying womanhood, 

For am I not, am I not, here alone 

So many a summer since she died. 

My mother, who was so gentle and good ? 

Living alone in an empty house, 

Here half-hid in the gleaming wood. 

Where I hear the dead at midday moan. 

And the shrieking rush of the wainscot mouse, 

And my own sad name in corners cried, 

When the shiver of dancing leaves is thrown 

About its echoing chambers wide. 

Till a morbid hate and horror have grown 

Of a world in which I have hardly mixt, 

And a morbid eating lichen fixt 

On a heart half-tiu'n'd to stone. 

O heart of stone, are you flesh, and caught 
By that you swore to withstand? 
For what was it else withui me wrought 
But, I fear, the new strong wine of love. 
That made my tongue so stammer and trip 
When I saw the treasur'd splendor, her hand, 
Come sliding out of her sacred glove. 
And the sunlight broke from her lip.? 



524 . MA UD. 



I have play'd ^vith her when a child: 

She remembers it now we meet. 

Ah well, well, well, I may be beguil'd, 

By some coquettish deceit. 

Yet, if she were not a cheat. 

If Maud were all that she seeni'd. 

And her smile had all that I dream'd, 

Then the world were not so bitter 

But a smile could make it sweet. 



Did I hear it half in a doze 

Long since, I know not where? 

Did I dream it an hour ago, 

When asleep in this arm-chair.' 

Men were drinking together, 
Drinking and talking of me; 

" Well, if it prove a girl, the boy 
Will have plenty; so let it be." 

Is it an echo of something 

Read with a boy's delight, 
Viziers nodding together 

In some Arabian night? 

Strange, that I hear two men, 

Somewhere, talking of me; 
"Well, if it pi-ove a girl, my boy 

Will have plenty : so let it be." 

VIII. 

She came to the village church, 

And sat by a pillar alone; 

An angel watching an urn 

Wept over her, carved in stone; 

And once, but once, she lifted her eyes, 

And suddenly, sweetly, strangely blush'd 

To find they were met by my own ; 

And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat stronger 

And thicker, until I heard no longer 



MAUD. 525 

The snowy-banded, dilettante, 
Delicate-handed priest intone; 
And thought, is it pride, and mused and sigh'd 
" No surelj', now it cannot be pride." 

IX. 

I WAS walking a mile, 
More than a mile from the shore, 
The sun look'd out witli a smile 
Betwixt the cloud and the moor. 
And riding at set of day 
Over the dark moor land. 
Rapidly riding far away. 
She waved to me with her hand. 
There were two at her side, 
Something flash'd in the sun, 
Down by the hill I saw them ride. 
In a moment they were gone: 
Like a sudden spark 
Struck vainly in the night, 
And back returns the dark 
With no more hope of light. 



Sick, am I sick of a jealous dread? 
Was not one of the two at her side 
This new-made lord, whose splendor plucks 
The slavish hat from the villager's head? 
Whose old grandfather has lately died. 
Gone to a blacker pit, for whom 
Grimy nakedness dragging his trucks 
And laying his trams in a poison'd gloom 
Wrought, till he crept from a gutted mine, 
Master of half a servile shire, 
And left his coal all turn'd into gold 
To a grandson, first of his noble line, 
Rich in the grace all women desire, 
Strong in the power that all men adore, 
And simper and set their voices lower, 
And soften as if to a girl, and hold 
Awe-stricken breaths at a work divine. 
Seeing his gewgaw castle shine, 



526 MA UD. 

Ne^v as his title, built last year, 
There amid perky larches and pine. 
And over the sullen-purple moor 
(Look at it) pricking a cockney ear. 

What, has he found mv jevs'el out? 
For one of the two that rode at her side 
Boiuid for the Hall, I am sure was he; 
Bound for the Hall, and I think for a bride. 
Blithe would her brother's acceptance be. 
Maud could be gracious too, no doubt, 
To a lord, a captain, a padded shape, 
A bought commission, a waxen face, 
A rabbit mouth that is ever agape — 
Bought? what is it he cannot buy? 
And therefore splenetic, personal, base, 
A \vounded thing with a rancorous cry, 
At war with myself and a wretched race, 
Sick, sick to the heart of life, am I. 

Last week came one to the county town. 
To preach our poor little army down. 
And play the game of the despot kings, 
Tho' the state has done it and thrice as well: 
This broad-brimm'd hawker of holj' things, 
Whose ear is stufF'd with his cotton, and rings 
Even in dreams to the chink of his pence, 
This huckster put down war! can he tell 
Whether war be a cause or a consequence? 
Put down the passions that make earth Hell! 
Down with ambition, avarice, pride, 
Jealousy, down! cut off from the mind 
The bitter springs of anger and fear; 
Down too, down at j'our own fireside. 
With the evil tongue and the evil ear, 
For each is at ^var with mankind. 

I wish I could hear again 

The chivalrous battle-song 

That she warbled alone in her joy! 

I might persuade mj'self then 

She would not do herself this great wrong 

To take a ^vanton, dissolute boy 

For a man and leader of men. 



MA UD. 527 



Ah God, for a man with heart, head, hand, 
Like some of the simple great ones gone 
Forever and ever by. 
One still strong man in a blatant land, 
Whatever the}' call him, what care I, 
Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat, — one 
Who can rule and dare not lie. 

And ah for a man to rise in me. 
That the man I am may cease to be! 



LET the solid ground 
Not fail beneath my feet 

Before ni}- life has found 

What some have found so sweet; 
Then let come what come may, 
What matter if I go mad, 

1 shall have had mv day. 

Let the sweet heavens endure. 
Not close and darken above me 

Before I am quite, quite sure 
That there is one to love me; 

Then let come what come may 

To a life that has been so sad, 

I shall have had my day. 



Birds in the high Hall-garden 
When twilight was falling, 

Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, 
They were crying and calling. 

Where was Maud.' in our wood; 

And I, who else, was with her, 
Gathering woodland lilies. 

Myriads blow together. 



528 



MA un. 




Birds in our woods sang 

Ringing thro' the valleys, 
Maud is here, here, here 

In aiTiong the hlies. 

I kiss'd her slender hand. 

She took tlie kiss sedately i 
Maud is not seventeen. 

But she is tall and stately. 

I to cry out on pride 

Who have won her favor! 

Maud were sure of Heaven 
If lowliness could save her. 

1 know the way she went 

Koine with her maiden posy. 
For her feet have touch'd the meadows 
And left the daisies rosy. 



Birds in the high Hall-garden 
Were crying and calling to her, 

Where is Maud, Maud, Mauil. 
One is come to woo her. 



MA UD. 529 



Look, a horse at the doov, 

And little King Charles is snarling, 
Go back, my lord, across the moor, 

You are not her darling. 



Scorn'd, to be scorn'd by one that I scorn, 
Is that a matter to make me fret? 
That a calamity hard to be borne? 
Well, he may live to hate me vet. 

Fool that I am to be vext with his pride! 

I past him, I was crossing his lands: 

He stood on the path, a little asitie; 

His face, as I grant, in spite of spite, 

Has a broad-blown comeliness, red and white, 

And six feet two, as I thiidc, he stands; 

But his essence turn'd the live air sick, 

And barbarous opulence jewel-thick 

Sunn'd itself on his breast and his hands. 

Who shall call me ungentle, unfair, 
I long'd so heartily then and there 
To give him the grasp of fellowship; 
But while I past he was humming an air, 
Stopt, and then with a riding whip 
Leisurely tapping a glossy boot 
And curving a contumelious lip, 
Gorgonized me from head to foot 
With a stony British stare. 

Why sits he here in his father's chair? 
That old man never comes to his place: 
Shall I believe him asham'd to be seen? 
For only once, in the village street. 
Last 3'ear I caught a glimpse of his face, 
A gray okl wolf and a lean. 
Scarcely, no\v, would I call him a cheat; 
For then, perhaps, as a child of deceit. 
She might by a true descent be untrue; 
And Maud is as true as Maud is sweet; 
Tho' I f;uic3' her sweetness only due 



34 



530 MA UD. 

To the sweeter blood by the other side; 
Her mother has been a thing complete, 
However she came to be so allied. 
And fair without, faithful within, 
Maud to him is nothing akin: 
Some peculiar m3'stic grace 
Made hei» only the child of her mother, 
And heap'd the whole inherited sin 
On that huge scapegoat of the race, 
All, all upon the brother. 

Peace, angry spirit, and let him be! 
Has not his sister smiled on me? 



XIV. 

Maud has a garden of roses 
And lilies fair on a lawn; 
There she walks in her state 
And tends upon bed and bower. 
And thither I climb'd at dawn 
And stood bv her garden-gate; 
A lion ramps at the top. 
He is claspt by a passion flower. 

Maud's own little oak-room 

(Which Maud, like a precious stone 

Set in the heart of the carven gloom, 

Lights with herself, when alone 

She sits by her music and books, 

And her brother lingers late 

With a roistering company) looks 

Upon Maud's own garden-gate: 

And I thought as I stood, if a hand, as white 

As ocean-foam in the moon, were laid 

On the hasp of the window, and my Delight 

Had a sudden desire, like a glorious ghost, to glide, 

Like a beam of the seventh Heaven, down to my side, 

There were but a step to be made. 

The fancv flatter'd my mind. 

And again seem'd overbold; 

Now I thought that she cared for me. 



MA UD. 



531. 



Xow I thought she was kiinl 
Only because she was cold. 

I heard no sound where I stood 

But the rivulet on from the lawn 

Running down to my own dark wood; 

Or the voice of the long sea-wave as it swell'd 




Now and then in the dim-gray dawn; 

But I look'd, and round, all round the house I beheld 

The death- white curtain drawn; 

Felt a horror over me creep. 

Prickle my skin and catch my breath. 

Knew that the death-white curtain meant but sleep. 

Yet I shudder'd and thought like a fool of the sleep of death. 



XV. 



So dark a mind within me dwells, 
And I make myself such evil cheer, 

That if / be dear to some one else. 

Then some one else may have much to fear; 

But if / be dear to some one else, 

Then I should be to myself more dear. 

Shall I not take care of all that I think, 

Yea ev'n of wretched meat and drink, 

If I be dear, 

If I be dear to some one else? 



r>32 AfA UD. 



This lump of earth has left his estate 

The lighter by the loss of his weight; 

And so that he find what he went to seek, 

And fulsome Pleasure clog him, and drown 

His heart in the gross mud-honey of town, 

He may stay for a year who has gone for a week: 

But this is tlie da}- when I must speak. 

And I see my Oread coming down, 

O this is the day! 

beautiful creature, what am 1 
That I dare to look her way; 
Think I mav hold dominion sweet. 

Lord of the pulse that is lord of her breast. 
And dream of her bcautj' with tender dread. 
From the delicate Arab arch of her feet 
To the grace that, bright and light as the crest 
Of a peacock, sits on her shining head. 
And she knows it not: O, if she knew it. 
To know her beauty might half undo it. 

1 know it the one bright thing to save 
My yet young life in the wilds of Time, 
Perhaps from madness, perhaps from crime. 
Perhaps from a selfish grave. 

What, if she were fasten'd to this fool lord 

Dare I bid her abide by her word ? 

Should I love her so well if slie 

Had given her word to a thing so low .'' 

Shall I love her as well as if she 

Can break her word were it even for me.? 

I trust that it is not so. 

Catch not my breath, O clamorous heart. 
Let not my tongue be a thrall to my eye. 
For I must tell her before we part, 
I must tell her, or die. 

XVII. 

Go NOT, happy day. 

From the shining fields, 



MA UD. 503 

Go not, happy day, 

Till the maiden yields. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks, 

And a rose her mouth. 
When the happy Yes 

Falters from her lips, 
Pass and blush the news 

O'er the blowing ships, 
Over blowing seas, 

Over seas at rest. 
Pass the happy news. 

Blush it thro' the West, 
Till the red man dance 

Hy his red cedar-tree. 
And the red man's babe 

Leap, beyond the sea. 
Blush from West to East, 

Blush from East to West, 
Till the West is East, 

Blush it thro' the West. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks. 

And a rose her mouth. 



I HAVE led her home, ni}- love, my only friend. 

There is none like her, none, 

And never yet so warmly ran my blood 

And sweetly, on and on 

Calming itself to the long-wish'd for end. 

Full to the banks, close on the j^romis'd good. 

None like her, none; 

Just now the dry-tongued laurel's pattering talk, 

Seem'd her light foot along the garden walk. 

And shook my heart to think she comes once morei 

But even then I heard her close the door. 

The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is gone. 

There is none like her, none. 

Nor will be when our summers have deceased. 



534 MAUD. 



O, art thou sighing for Lebanon 

In the long breeze that streams to thj' deHcious East, 

Sighing for Lebanon, 

Dark cedar, tho' tliy limbs have here increas'd, 

Upon a pastoral slope as fair, 

Antl looking to the South, and fed 

With honey'd rain and delicate air. 

And haunted hv tiie starry head 

Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate, 

And made my life a perfum'd altar-flame; 

And over whom thv darkness must have spread 

With such delight as theirs of old, thy great 

Forefathers of the thornless garden, there 

Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from whom she came. 

Here will I lie, while these long branches sway. 

And you fair stars that crown a happy day 

Go in and out as if at merry play. 

Who am no more so all forlorn, 

As when it seem'd far better to be born 

To labor and the niattock-harden'd hand. 

Than nurs'd at ease and brought to understand 

A sad astrology, the boundless plan, 

That makes you tyrants in your iron skies. 

Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes. 

Cold fires, yet with power to burn and brand 

His nothingness into man. 

But now shine on, and what care I, 

Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearl 

The countercharm of space and hollow sky. 

And do accept my madness and would die 

To save from some slight shame one simple girl. 

Would die; for sullen seeming Death may give 

More life to Love than is or ever was 

In our low world, where yet 'tis sweet to live, 

Let no one ask me how it came to pass; 

It seems that I am happy, that to me 

A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass, 

A 23urer sapphire melts into the sea. 

Not die; but live a life of truest breath. 

And teach true life to fight with mortal wrongs. 



MAUD. 535 



O, why should Love, like men in drinking-songs, 

Spice his fair banquet with the dust of death? 

Make answer, Maud my bliss. 

Maud made my Maud by that long lover's kiss. 

Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this? 

" The dusky strand of Death inwoven here 

VV^ith dear Love's tie, makes Love himself more dear." 

Is that enchanted moan only the swell 

Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay? 

And hark the clock within, the silver knell 

Of twelve sweet hours that past in bridal white. 

And died to live, long as my pulses plav; 

But now by this my love has closed her sight 

And giv'n false death her hand, and stol'n away 

To dreamful wastes where footless foncies dwell 

Among the fragments of the golden day. 

May nothing there her maiden grace affright! 

Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy spell. 

My bride to be, my evermore delight, 

My own heart's heart and ownest own, farewell; 

It is but for a little space I go: 

And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell 

Beat to the noiseless music of the night! 

Has our whole earth gone nearer to the glow 

Of your soft splendors that you look so bright? 

/ have climb'd nearer out of lonely Hell. 

Beat, happy stars, timing with things below. 

Beat with my heart more blest than heart can tell, 

Blest, but tor some dark undercurrent woe 

That seems to draw — but it shall not be so: 

Let all be well, be well. 



XIX. 

Her brother is coming back to-night. 
Breaking up my dream of delight. 

My di-eam? do I dream of bliss? 
I have walk'd awake with Truth. 
O when did a morning shine 
So rich in atonement as this 
For my dark-dawning youth. 



536 MA UD. 



Darken'd watching a mother decline 
Ai.d that dead man at her heart and mine: 
For who was left to watch her but I? 
Yet so did I let my fresliness die. 

I trust that I did not talk 

To gentle Maud iu our walk. 

(For often in lonely wanderings 

I have cursed him even to lifeless things) 

But I trust that I did not talk, 

Not touch on her father's sin: 

I am sure I did but speak 

Of m}' mother's faded cheek 

When it slowly grew so thin, 

That I felt she was slowly dj'ing 

Vext with lawyers and harass'd with debt: 

For how often I caught her with eyes all wet, 

Shaking her head at her son and sighing 

A world of trouble within! 

And Maud too, Maud was moved 

To speak of the mother she loved 

As one scarce less forlorn. 

Dying abroad and it seems apart 

From him who had ceased to share her heart, 

And ever mourning over the feud. 

The household Fur)' sprinkled with blood 

By which our houses are torn ; 

How strange was what she said, 

When only Matid and the brother 

Hung over her dying bed, — 

That Maud's dark father and mine 

Had bound us one to the other, 

Betroth'd us over their wine 

On the day when Maud was born; 

Seal'd her mine from her first sweet breath. 

Mine, mine by a right, from birth till death. 

Mine, mine — our fathers have sv/orn. 

But the true blood spilt had in it a heat 
To dissolve the precious seal on a bond, 
That, if left uncancell'd, had been so sweet: 
And none of us thought of a something bevond, 
A desire that awoke in the heart of the child, 



MA UD. 537 

As it were a (Jut}- clone to the tomb, 
To be friends for her sake, to be reconciled; 
And I was cursing them and my doom, 
And letting a dangerous thought run wild 
While often abroad in the fragrant gloom 
Of foreign churches — I see her there, 
Bright English lily, breathing a prayer 
To be friends, to be reconciled! 

But then what a flint is he! 

Abroad, at Florence, at Rome, ' 

I find whenever she touch'd on me 

This brother had laugh'd her down, 

And at last, when each came home, 

He had darken'd into a frown, 

Chid her, and forbid her to speak 

To me, her friend of the years l:)efore; 

And this was what liad redden'd her cheek, 

When I bow'd to her on the moor. 

Yet Maud, altho' not blind 

To the faults of his heart and mind, 

I see she cannot but love him, 

And says he is rough but kind, 

And wishes me to approve him. 

And tells me, when she lay 

Sick once, with a fear of worse, 

That he left his wine and horses aud play, 

Sat with her, read to her, night and day, 

And tended her like a nurse. 

Kinti ? but the death-bed desire 
Spurn'd by this heir of the liar — 
Rough but kind? yet I know 
He has plotted against me in this, 
That he plots against me still. 
Kind to Maud? that were not amiss. 
Well, rough but kind; why, let it be so: 
For shall not Maud have her will? 

For, Maud, so tender and true. 
As long as mj' life endures 
I feel I shall owe you a debt. 



538 MA UD. 



That I never can hope to pay; 
And if ever I should forget 
That I owe this debt to you 
And for your sweet sake to yours; 

then, what then shall I say? 
If ever I should forget, 

May God make me more wretched 
Than ever I have been vet! 

So now I have sworn to bury 
All this dead body of hate, 

1 feel so free and so clear 

B)' the loss of that dead weight. 

That I should grow light-headed, I fear, 

Fantastically merry; 

But that her brother comes, like a blight 

On my fresh hope, to the Hall to-night. 

XX. 

Strange, that I felt so gay. 
Strange, that / tried to-day 
To beguile her melancholy ; 
The Sultan, as we name him. 
She did not wish to blame him — 
But he vext her and perplext her 
With his worldly talk and folly: 
Was it gentle to reprove her 
For stealing out of view 
From a little lazy lover 
Who but claims her as his due? 
Or for chilling his caresses. 
By the coldness of her manners, 
Nay, the plainness of her dresses? 
Now 1 know her but in two. 
Nor can pronounce upon it 
If one should ask me whether 
The habit, hat, and feather. 
Or the frock and gypsy bonnet 
Be the neater and completer; 
For nothing can be sweeter 
Than maiden Maud in either. 



MA UD. 539 



But to-monow, if we live, 
Our ponderous squire will give 
A grand political dinner 
To half the squirclings near; 
And Maud will wear her jc\vels, 
And the bird of prey will hovei", 
And the titmouse hope to win her 
With his chirrup at her ear. 

A grand political dinner 

To the men of many acres, 

A gathering of the Tory, 

A dinner and then a dance 

For the maids and marriage-makers, 

And every eye but mine will glance 

At Maud in all her glory. 

For I am not invited. 
But, with the Sultan's pardon, 
I am all as well delighted. 
For I know her own rose-garden. 
And mean to linger in it 
Till the dancing will be over; 
And then, O then, come out to me 
For a minute, but for a minute, 
Come out to your own true lover, 
That your true lover may see 
Your glory also, and render 
All homage to his own darling. 
Queen Maud in all her splendor. 



Rivulet crossing my ground. 

And bringing me down from the Hall 

This garden-rose that I found, 

Forgetful of Maud and me, 

And lost in trouble and moving round 

Here at the head of a tinkling fall, 

And trying to pass to the sea; 

O Rivulet, born at the Hall, 

My Maud has sent it by thee 

(If I read her sweet will right) 



540 



AfA UD. 



On a blushing mission to me, 
Saying in odor and color, " Ah, be 
Among ihe roses to-night." 



Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown, 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone; 




And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad. 
And the musk of the roses blo\vn. 

For a breeze of morning moves. 

And the planet of Love is on high, 

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves 
On a bed of daffodil sky, 

To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 
To faint in his light, and to die. 

All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon; 
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd 

To the dancers dancing in tune; 
Till a silence fell with the waking biid. 

And a hush with the setting; moon. 



I said to the lily, " There is but one 
With whom she has heart to be gay. 



MA UD. 541 

When will the dancers leave hci' alone? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone, 

And lialf to the rising dav; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 

I said to the rose, " The brief night goes 

In babble and revel and wine. 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, 

For one that will never be thine? 
But mine, but mine," so I svvare to the rose, 

" Forever and ever, mine." 



And the soul of the rose went into my blood. 

As tile music clash'd in the hall; 
As long by the garden lake I stood. 

For I heaid your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on to tiie wood. 

Our wood, that is dearer than all , 

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet 
That whenever a March-wind sighs 

He sets tiie jewel-print of your feet 
In violets blue as your eyes. 

To the woody liollows in which we meet 
And the valleys of Paradise. 

The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
But the rose was awake all night for vour sake. 

Knowing your promise to me; 
The lilies and roses were all awake. 

They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 

Queen rose ot the rosebud garden of girls. 

Come hitiier, the dances are done, 
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 

Queen lily and rose in one; 
Shine out, little head, suiming over with curls, 

To the flowers, and be their son. 



542 MAUD. 

There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, mj' dove, my dear; 

She is coming, mj' life, my fate; 
The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near;" 

And the white rose weeps, "She is late;" 
The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear;" 

And the lily whispers, " I wait." 

She is coming, my own, my swec 

Were it ever so airy a tread. 
My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthy bed; 
My dust would hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 
Would start and tremble under her feet, 

And blossom in purple and red. 

XXIII. 

♦* The fai.lt was mine, the fault was mine " — 

Why am I sitting here so stunn'd and still, 

Plucking the harmless wild-flower on the hill.? — 

It is this guilty hand! — 

And there rises ever a passionate cry 

From underneath in the darkening land — 

What is it, that has been done? 

O dawn of Eden bright over earth and sky. 

The fires of Hell brake out "of thy rising sun, 

The fires of Hell and of Hate; 

For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken a word. 

When her brother ran in his rage to the gate. 

He came with the babe-faced lord; 

Heap'd on her termfe of disgrace. 

And while she wept, and I strove to be cool. 

He fiercely gave me the lie, 

Till I with as fierce an anger spoke. 

And he struck me, madman, over the face. 

Struck me before the languid fool. 

Who was gaping and grinning by : 

Struck for himself an evil stroke: 

Wrought for his house an irredeemable woe; 

For front to front in aji hour we stood. 

And a million horrible bellowing echoes broke 



MA UD. 543 

From the red-iibb'd hollow behind the wood, 

And thundei'd up into Heaven the Christless code, 

That must have life for a blow. 

Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to grow. 

Was it he lay there with a fading eye? 

" The fault was mine," he whisper'd, " fly! " 

Then glided out of the joyous wood 

The ghastly Wraith of one that I know; 

And there rang on a sudden a passionate cry, 

A cry for a brother's blood : 

It will ring in my heart and my ears, till I die, till I die. 

Is it gone? my pulses beat — 

What was it? a lying trick of the brain? 

Yet I thought I saw her stand, 

A shadow there at my feet, 

High over the shadowy land. 

It is gone; and the heavens fall in a gentle I'ain, 

When they should burst and drown with deluging storms 

The feeble vassals of wine and anger antl Inst, 

The little hearts that know not how to forgive ; 

Ai-ise, my God, and strike, for we hold Thee just, 

Strike dead the whole weak race of venomous worms, 

That sting each other here in the dust; 

We are not worthy to live. 



See what a lovely shell. 
Small and pure as a pearl, 
Lying close to my foot, 
Frail, but a work divine. 
Made so fairih' well 
With delicate spire and v/horl. 
How exquisitely minute, 
A miracle of design! 

What is it? a learned man 
Could give it a clumsy name. 
Let him naine it who can. 
The beauty would be the same. 



54-4 MAUD 



The tiny cell is forlorn, 
Void of the little living will 
That made it stir on the shore. 
Did he stand at the diamond door 
Of his house in a rainbow frill? 
Did he push, when he was uncurl'd, 
A golden foot or a fairy horn 
Thro' his dim water- world? 

Slight, to be crush'd with a tap 
Of my finger-nail on the sand, 
Small, but a work divine. 
Frail, hut of force to withstand. 
Year upon year, the shock 
Of cataract seas that snap 
The three-decker's oaken spine 
Athwart the ledges of rock. 
Here on the Breton strand ! 

Breton, not Briton; here 

Like a shipwreck'd man on a coast 

Of ancient fable and fear. 

Plagued with a flitting to and fro, 

A disease, a hard mechanic ghost 

That never came from on high 

Nor never arose from below, 

But only moves with the moving eye, 

Flying along the land and the main, 

Why should it look like Maud? 

Am I to be overawed 

By what I cannot but know 

Is a juggle born of the brain? 

Back from the Breton coast, 

Sick of a nameless fear, 

Back to the dark sea-line, 

Looking, thinking of all I have lost: 

An old song vexes mv ear; 

But that of Lamech is mine. 

For vears, a measureless ill. 
For years, forever, to part. — 
But she, she would love me still; 



35 



MA UD. 545 

And as loii<r, O God, as she 
Have a grain of love tor me, 
So long, no doubt, no doubt, 
Shall 1 nurse in my dark heart, 
However weary, a spark of will 
Not to be trampled out. 

Strange, that the mind, when fraught 

With a passion so intense 

One would think that it well 

Might drown all life in the eye, — 

That it should, hy being so overwiought, 

Suddenly strike on a sharper sense 

For a shell, or a flower, little things 

Which else would have been past bjl 

And now I remember, I, 

When he lay dying there, 

I noticed one of his many rings 

(For he had many, poor worm,) and thought 

It is his mother's hair. 

Who knows if he be dead? 

Whether I need have fled? 

Am I guilty of blood? 

However this mav be. 

Comfort her, comfort her, all things good, 

While I am over the sea! 

Let me and my passionate love go by, 

But speak to her all things holy and high, 

Whatever happen to me! 

Me and inv harmful love go by; 

But come to her waking, find her asleep, 

Powers of the height. Powers of the deep, 

And comfort her tho' I die. 



XXV. 

Courage, poor heart or stone! 
I will not ask thee why 
Thou canst not understand 
Tliat thou art left forever alone: 
Courage, poor stupid heart of stone.- 
Or if I ask thee whv, 
Care not thou to reply; 



546 MA UD. 



She is but dead, and the time is at hand 
When thou slialt more than die. 



O THAT 'twere possible 

After long grief and pain 

To find the arms of my true love 

Round me once again ! 

When I was wont to meet her 
In the silent woody places 
By the home that gave me birth, 
We stood tranc'd in long embraces 
Mixt with kisses sweeter, sweeter 
Than anvthlng on earth. 

A shadow flits before me, 

Not thou, but like to thee; 

Ah Christ, that it were possible 

Foi" one short hour to see 

The souls we loved, that they might tell us 

What and where thcv be. 

It leads me forth at evening, 

It lightly winds and steals 

In a cold white robe before me. 

When all my spirit reels 

At the shouts, the leagues of lights. 

And the roaring of the wheels. 

Half tlie night I waste in sighs, 
Half in dreams I sorrow after 
The delight of early skies; 
In a wakeful doze I sorrow 
For the hand, the lips, the eyes, 
For the meeting of the morrow, 
The delight of happy laughter. 
The delight of low replies. 

'Tis a morning pure and sweet. 
And a dew\' splendor falls 



MA UD. 547 

On the little flower that clings 
To the turrets and the walls; 
'Tis a inorning pure and sweet, 
And the light and shadow fleet; 
She is walking in the meadow, 
And the woodland echo rings; 
In a moment we shall meet: 
She is singing In the meadow. 
And the rivulet at her feet 
Ripples on in light and shadow 
To the ballad that she sings. 

Do I hear her sing as of old. 

My bird with the shining head, 

My own dove with tiie tender eye? 

But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry. 

There is some one dying or dead, 

And a sLiIIer. thunder is roll'd; 

For a tumult shakes the city, 

And I wake, my dream is fled; 

In the shuddering dawn, behold, 

Without knowledge, without pity, ' 

By the curtains of my bed 

That abiding phantom cold. 

Get thee hence, nor come again. 
Mix not memory with doubt, 
Pass, thou deathlike t3'pe of pain, 
Pass and cease to move about, 
'Tis the blot upon the brain 
That -vill show itself without. 

Then I rise, the eavedrops fall. 
And the yellow vapors choke 
The great city sounding wide; 
The day comes, a dull red ball 
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 
On the misty river-tide. 

Thro' the hubbub of the market 

I steal, a wasted frame. 

It crosses here, it crosses there. 

Thro' all that crowd confused and loud, 

The shadow still the same: 



548 



MA I D. 



And on thy heavy eyelids 
My anguish hangs like shame. 

Alas for her tiiat met me, 
That heard me softly call, 
Came glimmering thro' the laurels 
At the quiet evenfall, 




In the garden 1)\- tlie turrets 
Of the old manorial hall. 

Would the hapjjy spirit descend, 
From the realms of light and song, 
In the chamber or the street. 
As she looks among the blest, 
Should I fear to greet my friend 
Or to sav "forgive the wrong," 
Or to ask her, " take me, sweet. 
To the regions of thy rest? " 



But the broad light glares and beats, 
And the shadow flits and fleets 
And will not let me be: 



MA UD. 549 

And I lo;ithe the squares and streets, 
And the faces that one meets, 
Hearts with no love for me: 
Always I long to creep 
Into some still cavern deep, 
There to ■weep, and weep, and weep 
My whole soul out to thee. 

XXVII. 

Dead, long dead. 

Long dead ! 

And my heart is a handful of dust. 

And the wheels go over my head. 

And mv hones are shaken with pain. 

For into a shallow grave they are thrust, 

Onh- a yard beneath the street. 

And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat. 

The hoofs of the horses beat. 

Beat into my scalp and my brain, 

With never an end to the stream of passing feet, 

Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying. 

Clamor and rumble, and ringing and clatter. 

And here beneath it is all as bad. 

For I thought the dead had peace, hut it is not so; 

To have no peace in the grave, is that not sad.' 

But up and down and to anil fro, 

Ever about me the dead men go; 

And then to hear a dead man chatter 

Is enough to drive one mad. 

Wretchedest age, since Time began. 

They cannot even bury a man; 

And tho' we paid our tithes in the days that are gone. 

Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was read; 

It is that which makes us loud in the world of the dead; 

There is none that does his work, not one; 

A touch of their office might have sufficed. 

But the churchmen fain would kill their church, 

As the churches have kill'd their Christ. 

See, there is one of us sobbing. 

No limit to his distress; 

And another, a lord of all things, praying 



550 MA UD. 



To liis own great self, as I guess; 

And another, a statesman there, betraying 

His party-secret, fool, to the press; 

And yonder a vile pliysician, babbling 

The case of his patient, — all for what? 

To tickle the maggot born in an emptv liead, 

And wheedle a world that loves him not, 

For it is but a world of the dead. 

Nothing^ but idiot o'abble! 

For the jjrophecy given of old 

And then not understood, 

Has come to pass as foretold; 

Not let any man think for the public good. 

But babble, merely for babble. 

For I never whisper'd a private affair 

Within the hearing of cat or mouse, 

No, not to myself in the closet alone, 

But I heard it shouted at once from the top of the house; 

Everything came to be known: 

Who told hitn we \vere tliere.' 

Not that gray old wolf, for he came not back 
From the wilderness, full of wolves, where he used to lie; 
He has gather'd the bones for his o'ergrown whelp to crack; 
Crack them now for yoiu'self, and howl, and die. 

Prophet, cinse me the babbling lip. 

And ciu'se me the British vermin, the rat; 

I know not whether he came in the Hanover ship. 

But I know that he lies and listens mute 

In an ancient mansion's crannies and holes: 

Arsenic, arsenic, sure, \vould tlo it, 

I'.xcept that now we poison our babes, poor souls! 

It is all used up for that. 

Tell him now: she is standing here at mv head; 

Not beautiful now, not even kind; 

He may take her now; for she never speaks her mind. 

But is ever the one thing silent here. 

She is not of us, as I divine; 

She comes from another stiller world of the dead, 

Stiller, not fairer than mine. 



MA UD. 551 

But I know where a garden grows, 

Fairer than aught in tlie world beside; 

All iriade up of the lily and rose 

That blow by nigiit, vvlien the season is gooil, 

To the sound of dancing music and flutes: 

It is only flowers, they had no fruits, 

And I almost fear they are not roses, but blood; 

For the keeper was one, so full of pride. 

He linkt a dead man there to a spectral bride; 

For he, if he had not been a Sultan of brutes, 

Would he have that hole in his side? 

But what will the old man say? 

He laid a cruel snare in a pit 

To catch a frienil of mine one stormy day; 

Yet now I could even weep to think of it; 

For what will the old man say 

When he comes to the second corjjse in the pit? 

Friend, to be struck by the public foe. 
Then to strike him and lay him low. 
That were a public merit, far, 
Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin; 
But the red life spilt for a private blow — 
I swear to you, lawful and lawless war 
Are scarceh* even akin. 

me, why have they not buried me deep enough? 
Is it kind to have made mc a grave so rough, 
Me, that was never a quiet sleeper? 

Maybe still I am but half-dead; 
Then I cannot be wholly dumb; 

1 will cry to the steps above mv head. 

And somebody, surely, some kind heart will come 
To bury me, bury me 
Deeper, ever so little deeper. 



My life has crept so long on a broken wing 
Thro' cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear. 
That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing: 
My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of 3'ear 



552 MA UD. 



When the face of the night is fair on the dewv downs, 

And the shining daffodil dies, and the Charioteer 

And starry Gemini hang like glorious crowns 

Over Orion's giave low down in the west, 

That like a silent lightning under the stars 

She seem'd to divide in a dream from a hand of the blest, 

And spoke of a hope for the world in the coming wars — 

"And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble have rest. 

Knowing I tarry for thee," and pointed to Mars 

As he glowed like a inddy shield on the Lion's breast. 

And it was but a dream, j-et it yielded a dear delight 

To have looked, tho' but in a dream, upon eyes so fair, 

That had been in a weary world my one thing bright; 

And it was but a dream, yet it Hghtcn'il mv despair 

When I thought that a war would arise in defence of the right. 

That an iron tyranny now should bend or cease. 

The glory of manhood stand on his ancient height, 

Nor Britain's one sole God lie the millionaire: 

No more shall commerce be all in all, and Peace 

Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note. 

And watch her harvest ripen, her herd increase. 

Nor the cannon-bullet .rust on a slothful shore, 

And the cobweb woven across the cannon's throat 

Shall shake its threaded tears in the wind no more. 

Antl as months ran on and rumor of battle grew, 

" It is time, it is time, O passionate heart," said I 

(For I cleav'd to a cause that I felt to be pure and true), 

" It is time, O passionate heart and morliid eve, 

That old hysterical mock-disease shoulil die." 

And I stood on a giant deck and mixed m\- lueath 

Witli a loyal people shouting a battle-crv. 

Till I sa\v the dreary phantom arise and fl\- 

Far into the North, and battle, and seas of death. 

Let it go or stav, so I wake to the higher aims 

Of a land that has lost for a little her lust of golil, 

And love of a peace that was full of ^vrongs and shames, 

Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to l)c told; 

And hail once more to the banner of battle unroilVl! 

Tho' many a light shall darken, and many shall weep 

For those that are crush'd in the clash of jarring clanns, 

Yet God's just vvrath shall be wreak'd on a giant liar; 



MAUD. 



553 



And many a darkness into the light shall leap, 
And shine in the sudden inakin-^ of splendid names, 
And noble thought be freer under the sun, 
And the heart of a people beat with one desire; 
P"or the peace, that I deemed no peace, is over and done. 
And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic deep, 
And deathful-grinning mouths of the fortress flames 
The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire. 

Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down like a wind. 

We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are noble still, 

And myself have awaked, as it seems, to the lietter mind; 

It is better to fight for the good, than to rail :U the ill; 

I liave felt with my native land, I am one with my kind, 

I embrace the purpose of God, and the doom assign'd. 




554 



THE BROOK. 




THE BROOK. 



AN IDVI. 




ERE, by this bronk, we parted; I to the East 
And he for Italy — too late — too late: 
One whom the strono; sons of the world despise 
For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and share, 
And mellow metres inore than cent lor cent; 
Nor could he understand how money breeds. 
Thought is a dead thing; yet himself could make 
The thing that is not as the thing that is. 
O had he liyed! In our school-books we say, 
Of those that held their heads aboye the crowd, 
They flourish'd then or then; but life in him 
Could scarce be said to flourish, only touch'd 
On such a time as goes before the leaf, 
When all the wood stands in a mist of green, 
And nothing perfect: yet the book he loved. 
For which, in branding summers of Bengal, 



THE BROOK. 



ooa 



Or ev'u the sweet half-English Xeilgheiry air, 

I panted, seems, as I re-listen to it, 

Prattling the primrose fancies of the boy. 

To mc that loved him; for 'O brook,' he says, 

' O babbling brook,' says Edmund in his rhyme, 

'Whence come vou;' and the brook, why not? replies. 




^^-■/■''W^-^^ ---■ 




I come from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden sally 
And sparkle out among the fern 

To bicker down a valley. 

Bv thirty hills I hurry down, 
Or slip between the ridges, 

Bv twenty thorps, a little town, 
And half a hundred bridges. 



Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
T.-I inln the brimmine river_ 

For men may come ana men may go, 
Hut I jro on forever. 



556 



THE BROOK. 



" Poor lad, lie died at Florence, quite worn out, 
Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley bridge. 
It has inore ivy; there the river; and there 
Stands Philip's farin where brook and river meet. 




I chatter over stony "ways, 
In little sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddving bays, 
I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
Bv many a lield and iallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 



I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To I'oin the brimming river, 

For men may coir.e and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 



"But Philip chatter'd more than brook or bird; 
Old Philip; all about the fields you caught 



THE BROOK. 5i)7 



His weary daylong chirping, lilce tlie dry 
Higli-elbow'd grigs tliat leap in summer grass. 



I wind about, and in and out, 
Witii here a blossom sailing, 

And here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling. 

And here and there a tbamy tlake 

Upon me, as I travel 
With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel, 

And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on forever. 



"O darling Katie \Villows, his one child! 
A maiden of our century, yet most meek; 
A daughter of our meadows, yet not coarse; 
Straight, but as lissome as a hazel wand ; 
Her eyes a bashful azure, and her hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit within. 

" Sweet Katie, once I did her a good tmn, 
Her and her far-off cousin and betrothed, 
James Willows, of one name and heart with her. 
For here I came, twenty years back, — the week 
Before I parted with poor Edmund; crost 
By that old bridge which, half in ruins then. 
Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the gleam 
Beyond it, where the waters many — crost, 
Whistling a random bar of Bonny Doon, 
And push'd at Philip's garden-gate. The gate. 
Half-parted from a weak and scolding hinge, 
Stuck; and he clamor'd from a casement, ' Run ' 
To Katie somewhere in the walks below. 
'Run, Katie!' Katie never ran: she moved 
To meet me, winding under woodbine bowers, 
A little flutter'd with her eyelids down, 
Fresh apple blossom, blushing for a boon. 



558 THE BROOK. 



" What was it? less of sentiment than sense 
Had Katie; not illiterate; neither one 
Who dabbling in the fount of fictive tears, 
And nursed by mealy-mouthed philanthropies. 
Di\orce the Feeling from her mate the Deed. 

"She told me. She and James had quarrell'd. Why? 
What cause of quarrel? None, she said, no cause; 
James had no cause: but when I prest the cause, 
I learnt that James had flickering jealousies 
Which anger'd her. Who anger'd James? I said. 
But Katie snatch'd her eyes at once from mine, 
And sketching with her slender-pointed foot 
Some figure like a wizard's pentagram 
On garden gravel, let my query pass 
Unclaim'd, in flushing silence, till I ask'd 
If James were coming. 'Coming every day,' 
She answer'd, ' ever longing to explain. 
But evermore her father came across 
With some long-winded tale, antl broke him short; 
And James departed vext with him and her.' 
How coidd I help her? ' Would I — was it wrong?' 
(Claspt hands and that petitionary grace 
Of sweet seventeen subdueil me ere she spoke) 
' O would I take her father for one hour, 
For one half-hour, and let him talk to me!' 
And even while she spoke, I saw where James 
Made towards us, like a wader in the siu'f, 
Bevond the brook, waist-deep in meadow-swee-t. 

" O Katie, what I suffer'd for your sake! 
For I went in and call'd old Philip out 
To show the farm : full willinglj- he rose: 
He led me through the short sweet-smelling lanes 
Of his wheat suburb, babbling as he went. 
He praised his land, his horses, his machines; 
He praised his ploughs, his cows, his hogs, his dogs: 
He praised his bens, his geese, his guinea-hens; 
His pigeons, who in session on their roofs 
Appro\ed him, bowing at their own deserts; 
Then from the plaintive mother's teat, he took 
Her blind and shuddering puppies, naming each, 
And naming those, his friends, for whom they were; 
Then crost the common into Darnlev chase 



THE BROOK. 



559 




To show Sir Aithui's deer. In copse and fern 

Twinkled the innumerable ear and tail. 

Then, seated on a serpent-rooted beech. 

He pointed out a pasturing colt, and said : 

' That was the four-year-old I sold the Squire.' 

And there he told a long, long-winded tale 

Of how the Squire had seen the colt at grass. 

And how it was the thing his daughter wish'd, 

And how he sent the bailiff to the farm 

To learn the price, and what the price he aslc'd. 

And how the bailiff swore that he was mad, 

But he stood firm ; and so the matter hung ; 

He gave them line; and five days after that 

He met the bailiflT at the Golden Fleece, 

Who then and there had offer'd something more. 

But he stood firm; and so the matter hung; 

He knew the man; the colt would fetch its price; 

He gave them line; and how by chance at last 

(It might be May or April, he forgot. 

The last of April or the first of May) 

He found the bailiff riding by the farm. 

And, talking from the point, he drew him in, 

And there he mellow'd all his heart with ale. 

Until thev closed a bargain, hand in hand. 



" Then, while I breathcil in sight of haven, he, 
Poor fellow, could he help it.? recommenced. 
And ran thro' all the coltish chronicle. 



560 THE BROOK. 



Willi Will, Black Bess, Tantivy, Tallj-ho, 
Reform, White Rose, Bellerophon, the Jilt, 
Aibaces and Phenomenon, and the rest, 
Till, not to die a listener, I arose. 
And with me Philip, talking- still; and so 
He tnrn'd our foreheads from the falling sun, 
And following our own shadows thrice as long 
As when the)' follow'd us from Philip's door. 
Arrived, and found the sun of sweet content 
Re-risen in Katie's eyes, and all things well. 

I STEAL by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers; 
I move the sweet tbrget-me-nots, 

That grow for happv lo\'ers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance. 
Among my skimming swallows; 
make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses; 
I linger by my shingly bars; 

I loiter round mv cresses; 

And out again I ciu-ve and tlow 

To join the brimming river. 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

Yes, men may come and go; and these are gone, 

All gone. Mv dearest brother, Ednunid, sleeps, 

Not by the well-known stream :ind rustic spire, 

But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome 

Of Brunellcschi; sleeps in peace: and he, 

Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of words 

Remains the lean P. \V., on his tomb: 

I scraped the lichen from it: Katie walks 

By the long wash of Australasian seas 

Far off, and liolds her hea<l to other stars, 

And breathes in conxerse seasons. All are gone." 

So Lawrence Alvmer, seated on a stile 
In the long hedge, and rolling in his mind 
Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'er the brook 




"Not by the well-known stream and rustic spire. 
But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome 
Of Brunelleschi." 



THE BROOK. 



561 



A tonsured head in middle age forlorn, 

Mused, and was mute. On a sudden a low breath 

Of tender air made tremble in the hedge 

The fragile bindweed-bells and briony rings; 

And he look'd u]j. There stood a maiden near, 

Waiting to pass. In much amaze he stared 

On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair 

In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell 

Divides threefold to show the fruit within: 

Then, wondering, ask'd her, " Are you from the farm.' 

" Ves," answer'd she. " Pray stay a little: pardon me; 

What do they call you? "' "Katie." " That were strange. 

What surname.? " " Willows." " No! " " Th3t is my name." 

" Indeed!" and here he look'd so self-perplext, 

That Katie laugh'd, and laughing blush'd, till he 

Laugh'd also, but as one before he wakes. 

Who feels a glimmering strangeness in his dream. 

Then looking at her: " Too happy, fresh and fair, 

Too fresh and fair in our sad world's best bloom, 

To be the ghost of one who bore your name 

About these meadows, twenty years ago." 

" Have you not heard.' " said Katie, " we came back. 
We bought the farm we tenanted before. 
Am I so like her.'^ so they said on board. 
Sir, if you knew her in her English days, 
My mother, as it seems you did, the days 
That most she loves to talk of, come with me. 
My brother James is in the harvest-field: 
But she — vou will be \velcome — O, come in! "' 




562 



THE DAISY. 



THE DAISY. 



WRITTEN AT EDINBUKGH. 




'3 LOVE, wh.il hours were ihiiie and mine. 
j|\;A 111 lands of palm and southern pine; 

In lands of palm, of orange-blossom. 
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. 



.<CM\Vhat Roman strength Tiirbia sliovv'd 
In ruin, by the mountain road; 

How like a gem, beneath, the cit}' 
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd. 

How richly down the rockvdell 
The torrent vineyard streaming fell 

To meet the sun and sunny waters, 
That only heaved with a summer swell. 



What slender campanili grew 

By bays, the peacock's neck in hue; 

Where, here and there, on samly beaches 
A milky-bell'd amarvllis blew. 

How young Columbus seem'd to rove, 
Yet present in his natal grove. 

Now watching high on mountain cornice, 
And steering, now, from a purple cove. 

Now pacing mu!:e bj' ocean's rim; 
Till, ill a narrow street and dim, 

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, 
And drank, and lovallv drank to him. 



Nor knew we well what pleased us most, 
Not the dipt palm of -which they boast; 

But distant color, happv hamlet, 
A moulder'd citadel on the coast, 




"A moulder'd citndel on the coast, 
Or tower, or high hill-convent." 



THE DAisr. 563' 



Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen 
A light :imid its olives green; 

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean; 
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine, 

Where oleanders flush'd the bed 
Of silent torrents, gravel-spread ; 

And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten 
Of ice, far up on a mountain heail. 

We lov'd that hall, tho' white and cold, 
Those niched shapes of noble mould, 
A princely jseople's awful princes. 
The grave, severe Genovese of old. 

At Florence too what golden hours. 
In those long galleries, were ours; 

What drives about the fresh Cascine, 
Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers. 

In bright vignettes, and each complete. 
Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet. 

Or palace, how the city glitter'd. 
Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet. 

But when we crost the Lombard plain 
Remember what a plague of rain; 

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma; 
At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. 

And stern and sad (so rare the smiles 
Of sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles; 

Porch-pillars on the lion resting, 
And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. 

Milan, O the chanting quires. 
The giant windows' blazon'd fires. 

The height, the space, the gloom, the glory! 
A mount of marble, a hundred spires! 

1 cHmb'd the roofs at break of day; 
Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. 



^64 



THE DAISY. 



I stood among the silent statues, 
And statued pinnacles, mute as they. 




How faintly-flush'd, how phantom-fair, 
Was Monte Rosa, hanging there 

A thousand shadovvy-pencil'd valleys 
And snowy dells in a golden air. 

Remember how we came at last 
To Como; shower and storm anil blast 
Had l)!owii the lake bevond his limit. 
And all was flooded; and how we past 

From Como, when the light was gray. 
And in my head, for half the day, 

The rich Virgilian rustic measure 
Of Lari Maxume, all the way, 

Like ballad-burthen music, kept. 
As on the Lariano crept 

To that fair port below the castle 
Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept; 



Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake 
A cypress in the moonlight shake. 

The moonlight touching o'er a terrace 
One tall Agave above the lake. 



THE DAISr. 



565 



What more? we took our last adieu, 
And up the snowy Sphigen drew, 

But ere we reach'd the hig^hest summit 
I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you. 

It told of England then to me. 
And now it tells of Italy. 

O love, we two shall go no longer 
To lands of summer across the sea; 

So dear a life your arms enfold 
Whose crying is a cry for gold: 

Yet here to-night in this dark city, 
When ill and weary, alone and cold, 

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and drv. 
This nurseling of another sky 

Still in the little book you lent mc. 
And where you tenderly laid it by: 

And I forgot the clouded Forth, 

The gloom that saddens Heaven and Earth, 

The bitter East, the mist}' summer 
And gray metropolis of the North. 

Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, 
Perchance, to charm a vacant brain. 

Perchance, to dream )ou still beside me. 
My fancy fled to the South again. 




566 



TO THE RE V. F. D. MA UlilCE. 



TO THE RE V. F. D. MA UBICE. 




OME, when no graver cares employ, 
God-father, come and see your boy: 

Your presence will be sun in winter, 
Making the little one leap for joy 

For, being of that honest few, 
'rv^tHit;^ Who give the Fiend himself his due. 

Should eighty thousand college councils 
Thunder "Anathema," friend, at you; 

Should all our churchmen foam in spite 
At you, so careful of the right. 

Yet one lav-hearth w ould give you welcome 
(Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight; 

W'here, far from noise and smoke of town 
I watch the twilight falling brown 

All round a careless order'd garden 
Close to the ridge of a noble down. 



You'll have no scandal while you dine, 
But honest talk and wholesome wine. 

And only hear the magpie gossip 
Garrulous under a roof of pine: 

For groves of pine on either hand. 
To break the blast of winter, stand: 

And further on, the hoary Channel 
Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand; 



Where, if below the milky steep 
Some sliip of battle slowly creep. 

And on thro' zones of light and shadow 
Glimmer away to the lonely deep, 



TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. 



567 



We might discuss the Northern sin 
Which made a selfish war begin; 

Dispute the. claims, arrange the chances; 
Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win: 

Or whether war's avenging rod 
Shall lash all Europe into blood; 

Till _vou should turn to dearer matters. 
Dear to the man that is dear to God; 

How best to help the slender store. 
How men 1 the dwellings, of the poor; 

How gain in life, as life advances, 
Valor and charitv, more and more. 

Come, Maurice, come: the lawn as vet 
Is hoar with rime, or spong3'-wet; 

Rut then the wreath of March has blossom'd, 
Crocus, anemone, violet. 

Or later, pav one visit here, 

For those are few we hold as dear; 

Nor pav but one, but come for many, 
Many and man3' a happy year. 

Janu.iry, 1S54. 




568 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 





\LF a league, half a league, 
If a league onward, 
in the valley of Death 
Rode tlie six hundred. 
"Forward, the Light Brigade! 
Charge for the guns!" he said: 
Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

"Forward, the Light Brigade!" 
Was there a man dismay'd? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder'd : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die: 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 



Cannon to right of them 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell. 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 

Flash'd all their sabres bare, . 
Flash'd as they turn'd in air. 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Chargnig an army, while 
All the world wonder'd: 







/ 




rHE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 



THE CHARliE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 



569 



Plung'd in the battery smoke, 
Right thro' tlie line they broke; 
Cossaclc and Russian 
Reel'd from the sabre stroke 

Shatter'd and sunder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not. 
Not the six lumdred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon beliind tliem 

Vollej-'d and tlinnder'd; 






I 










Q ' • • • f It ^ ' 






-■% 



»t"* 



g w 



J ,''l 



'!ii!^^''^ ^^im^^^M'^^miM 




g^wefsr^.' -■'" 



Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 
Left of six hundred. 



570 



MILL. 



When can their glory f;ide? 
O the wild charge they made! 

All the vv^orld wonder'd. 
Honor the charge they made! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred! 



-*=;«Sig-*s 



WILL. 




. WELL for him whose will is strong! 



He suffers, but he will not suffer long; 
He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong; 
ij.& For him nor moves the loud world's random mock, 
b Nor all Calamit3''s hugest waves confound, 
IWho seems a promontory of rock, 
That, compass'd round with turbulent sound. 
In middle ocean meets the surging shock, 
Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown 'd. 



But ill for him who, bettering not 'with time. 

Corrupts tlie strength of heaven-descended Will, 

And ever weaker grows thro' acted crime, 

Or seeming-genial venial fault, 

Recurring and suggesting still ! 

He seems as one whose footsteps halt. 

Toiling in immeasurable sand, 

And o'er a wearv, sultry land. 

Far beneath a blazing ^-ault. 

Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill. 

The citj' sparkles like a grain of salt. 




THE GRANDMOTHER. 



571 



THE GRANDMOTHER. 




^)J^ 



ND Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Annie? 
^RiKldy, and white, and strong on his legs, he loolcs like a 
' ^ man. 

And Willy's wife has written: she never was over-wise 
nj Never the wife for Willy: he wouldn't take my advice. 

Foi, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save, 
Hadn't a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave. 
Pretty enough, \ery pretty! but I was against it for one. 
Eh: — but he wouldn't hear me — and Willv, you sav, is o-one. 

\Villy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock, 
&M^ Never a man could tiing him; for Willy stood like a rock. 
^ " Hei-e's a leg for a baby of a week! " says doctor: and he would 
be bound 

There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round. 

Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue! 
I ouLjht to have gone before him; I wonder he went so vouno-. 

T J ^ 

1 cannot cry for him, Annie; I have not long to stav; 
Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away. 



Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard and cold; 
But all my children have gone before me, I am so old : 
I canjiot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 

For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear. 
All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear, 
I mean your grandfather, Annie: it cost me a world of woe. 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 

For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well 
That Jenny had tript \\\ her time: I knew, but I would not tell. 
And she to be commg and slandering me, the base little liar! 
But the tongue is a fire, as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire. 



572 THE GRANDMOTHER. 



And the parson made it his text that week, and he said hkewise, 
That a he wliich is half a truth is ever the hhickest of lies, 
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, 
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight. 

And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day; 
And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle of May 
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been! 
But soiling another, Annie, will never make one's self clean. 

And I cried mvself wcU-nigh blind, and all of an evening late 

I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate. 

The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale. 

And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale. 

All of a sudden he stopt: there past by the gate of the farm, 
Willy, — he didn't see me, — and Jenny hung on his arm. 
Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how; 
Ah, there's no fool like the old one — it makes me angry now. 

Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he meant; 
Jennjf, the viper, made me a mocking courtesy and went. 
And I said, " Let us part: in a hundred years it'll all be the same. 
You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name." 

And he turn'd, and 1 saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine: 
" Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine. 
And what do I care foi' Jane, let her speak of you well or ill; 
But marry me out of hand: we two shall be happy still." 

" Marrv you, Willy! " said I, •• l>ut I needs must speak my mind. 
And I fear vou'll listen to tales, be jealous and hard and tnikind." 
But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd, "No, love, rio;" 
Seventy vears ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 

So Willv and I \vere wedded: I wore a lilac gown; 
And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown. 
But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born. 
Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn. 

That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death. 
There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a breath. 



THE GRANDMOTHER. ")~3 



I had not wept, little Annie, not since I had been a wife; 

But I wept like a child that day, tor the babe had fi night for his life. 

His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain: 

I look'd at the still little body — his trouble had all been in vain. 

For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn: 

But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born. 

But he cheer'd me, mv g'ood man, for he seldom said me nay: 
Kind, like a man, was he; like a man, too, would have his way: 
Never jealous — not he: we had many a happy year; 
And he died, and I- could not weep — my own time seem'd so near. 

But I wish'd it hail been God's will that I, too, then could have died 
I began to lie tired a little, and fain had slept at his side. 
And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget: 
But as to the children, Annie, they re all about me yet. 

Pattering over the boards, ray Annie, who left me at two, 
Pattei she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like 30U: 
Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will, 
While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill. 

And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too — they sing to their team: 
Often thev come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream. 
They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed — 
I am not alwavs certain if they be alive or dead. 

And yet I know for a truth, there's none of them left alive; 
For Harrv went at sixty, j-our father at sixty-five: 
And Willy, my eldest-born, at nigh threescore and ten: 
I knew them all as babies, and now they're elderly men. 

For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve: 
I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve: 
And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I; 
I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by. 

To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad: 
But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to be had; 
And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease: 
And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace. 



574 



THE LETTERS. 



And age is a time: of peace, so it be free from pain, 
And happy has been my life; but I would not live it again. 
I seem to be tired a little, that's all, and long for rest: 
Only at j'our age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 

So Willie has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower; 
But how can I weep for Willv, he has but gone for an hour, — 
Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next; 
I too, shall go in a rninute. What time have I to be vext? 

And Willy's wife has written, she never was over-wise. 
Get me my glasses, Annie: thank God that I. keep my eyes. 
There is but a trifle left you, when I sliall have passed awav. 
But stay with the old woman no%v: you cannot ha\'e long to sta}'. 



•- »s=:«3;&«; 



THE LETTERS. 




jTILL on the tower stood the \'ane, 
t' A black yew gloom'd the stagnant air 
I peer'd athwart the chancel pane 

And saw the altar col'.l and bare. 
A clog of lead was round my feet, 
A band of pain across my brow; 
"* " Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall meet 
Before you hear my marriage vow." 



^ I turn'd and limnm'd a bitter song 

That mock'd the wholesome human heart. 
And then we met in wrath :nid wrong. 

We met, but onlv meant to'part. 
Full cold mj' greeting was and dry; 

Shefaintly smiled, she hardly moved; 
I saw with half-unconscious eye 

She wore the colors I approved. 



THE LETTERS. 



575 




She took the little ivory chest, 

With half a sigh she turn'd the key, 
Then raised her head with lips comprest, 

And gave my letters back to mc. 
And gave the trinkets and the rings, 

My gifts, when gifts of mine conld please; 
As looks a father on the things 

Of his dead son, I look'd on these. 



She told me all her friends had said ; 

I raged against the public liar; 
She talk'd as if her love were dead, 

But in mv words were seeds of fire. 



576 



THE LETTERS. 



"No more ot" love; your sex is known: 
I never will be twice deceived. 

Henceforth I trust the man alone, 
The woman cannot be believed. 

" Thro' slander,. meanest spawn of Hell 

(And \vomcn's slander is the worst), 
And you, whom once I loved so well. 

Thro' vou, my life will be accurst." 
I spoke with heart, and heat, and force, 

I shook her breast with vague alarms — 
Like torrents from a mountain source 

We rush'd into each other's arms. 

We parted: sweetly gleam'd the stars, 

And sweet the vapor-braided blue, 
Low breezes fann'd the belfty bars. 

As homeward b\' the church I drew. 
The ver}- graves appeared to smile. 

So fresh they rose in shadowVl swells; 
"Dark porch," I said, " and silent aisle. 

There comes a sound of marriasre bells.'' 




.^^^.-..^ 




DEDICA TION. 



579 



DEDICA TION. 




HESE to His memory — since he held them de&.r.^ 
Perchance as finding there nnconsclously 
Some image of himself — I tledicate, 
I dedicate, I consecrate with tears — 
These Idyls. 

And indeed He seems to me 
Scarce other than my own ideal knight, 
"Who reverenced his conscience as his king; 
Whose glory was, redressing human wrong; 
WHio spake no slander, no, nor listen'd to it; 
Who loved one only and who clave to her — " 
Her — over all whose realms to their last isle, 
V) Commingled with the gloom of imminent war, 
The shadow of His loss moved like eclipse, 
Darkening the world. We have lost him: he is gone' 
We know him now: ail narrow jealousies 
Are silent: and we sec him as he moved. 
How modest, kindly, all-accomplish'd, wise. 
With what sublime repression of himself. 
And in what limits, and how tenderly; 
Not swaying to this faction or to that; 
Not making his high place the lawless perch 
Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantage-ground 
For pleasure: but thro' all this tract of vears 
Wearing the white flower of a blameless life. 
Before a thousand peering littlenesses. 
In that fierce light which beats upon a throne. 
And blackens every blot; for where is he. 
Who dares foreshadow for an only son 
A lovelier life, a more nnstain'd, than his? 
Or how should England dreaming oi his sons 
Hope more for these than some inheritance 
Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine. 
Thou noble Father of her Kings to be. 
Laborious for her people and her poor — 

Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day 

Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste 



580 



DEDICATION. 



To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace — 
Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam 
Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, 
Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed. 
Beyond all titles, and a household name. 
Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the Good. 

Break not, O woman's-heart, but still endure; 
Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure. 
Remembering all the beauty of that star 
Which shone so close beside Thee, that ye made 
One light together, but has past and left 
The Crown of lonely splendor. 

May all love, 
His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow Thee, 
The love of all Thj- sons encompass Thee, 
The love of all Th}' daughters cherish Thee, 
The love of all Thv people comfort Thee, 
Till God's love set Thee at his side again! 



^^i^> 





£MIO. 



ENID. 



581 



ENID. 




HE brave Geraint, knight of Arthur's court, 
A tributary prince of Devon, one 
Of that great order of the Table Round, 
Had wedded Enid, Ynlol's only child, 
And loved her, as he loved the light of Heaven. 
And as the light of Heaven varies, now 
At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night 
With moon and trembling stars, so loved Geraint 
To make her beauty vary day by day, 
In crimsons and in purples and in gems. 
And Enid, but to please her husband's eye. 
Who first had found and loved her in a state 
Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him 
In some fresh splendor; and the Queen herself, 
Grateful to Prince Geraint for service done. 
Loved her and often with her own white hands 
Array'd and deck'd her, as the loveliest. 
Next after her own self, in all the court. 
And Enid loved the Queen, and with true heart 
Adored her, as the stateliest and the best 
And loveliest of all women upon earth. 
And seeing them so tender and so close. 
Long in their common love rejoiced Geraint. 
But when a rumor rose about the Queen, 
Touching her guilty love for Lancelot, 
Though yet there lived no proof, nor yet was heard 
The world's loud whisper breaking into storm. 
Not less Geraint believed it; and there fell 
A horror on him, lest his gentle wife. 
Thro' that great tenderness to Guinevere, 
Had suffered or should suffer any taint 
In nature: wherefore going to the king, 
He made this pretext, that his princedom L-iy 
Close on the borders of a territory, 
Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff knights. 
Assassins, and all flyers from the hand 



582 ENID. 



Of justice, and whatever loathes a law : 

And therefore, till the king himself should please 

To cleanse this common sewer of all his realm, 

He craved a fair permission to depart, 

And there defend his marches; and the king 

Mused for a little on his plea, but, last. 

Allowing it, the prince and Enid rode, 

And fifty knights rode v/ith them, to the shores 

Of Severn, and they past to their own land; 

Where, thinking, that if ever yet was wife 

True to her lord, mine shall be so to me, 

He compassed her with sweet observances 

And worship, never leaving her, and grew 

Forgetful of his promise to the king. 

Forgetful of the falcon and the hunt, 

Forgetful of the tilt and tournament. 

Forgetful of his glory and his name, 

Forgetful of his princedom and its cares. 

And this forgetful ness was hateful to her. 

And b_v and b}' the people, when they met, 

In twos and threes, or fuller companies. 

Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him 

As of a prince whose manhood was all gone. 

And molten down in mere uxoriousness. 

And this she gathered from the people's eyes: 

This too the women who attired her head. 

To please her, dwelling on his boundless love. 

Told Enid, and they saddened her the more: 

And day by day she thought to tell Geraint, 

But could not out of bashful delicacy; 

While he that watch'd her sadden, was the more 

Suspicious that her nature had a taint. 

At last, it chanced on a summer morn 
(They sleeping each by other) the new sun 
Beat through the blindless casement of the room. 
And heated the strong warrior in his dreams; 
Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside. 
And bared the knotted column of his throat, 
The massive square of his heroic breast. 
And arms on which the standing muscle sloped, 
As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone. 
Running too vehemently to break upon it. 
And Enid woke and sat beside the couch. 



ENID. 583 

Admiring him, and thoiigiit within Iierseif, 

Was ever man so grandly made as he? 

Then, like a shadow, past tlie people's talk 

And accnsation of iixoriousncss 

Across her mind, and hovving over him, * 

Low to her own heart piteously, she said: 

" O noble breast and all-puissant arms. 

Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men 

Reproach you, saying all your force is gone? 

I am the cause because I dare not speak 

And tell him what I think and what they say. 

And yet I hate that he should linger here; 

I cannot love my lord and not his name. 

Far liever had I gird his harness on him, 

And ride with him to battle and stand by. 

Arid watch his mightful hand striking great blows 

At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world. 

Far better were I laid in the dark earth, 

Not hearing any more his noble voice. 

Not to be folded more in these dear arms, 

And darken'd from the high light in his eyes, 

Than that my lord through me should suffer shame. 

Am I so bold, and could I so stand by, 

And see my dear lord wounded in the strife, 

Or may be pierced to death before mine eyes, 

And yet not dare to tell him what I think. 

And how men slur him, saying all his force 

Is melted into mere effeminacv? 

O me, I fear that I am no true wife." 

Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke, 
And the strong passion in her made her weep 
True tears upon his broad and naked breast, 
And these awoke him, and by great mischance 
He heard but fragments of her later words, 
And that she fear'd she was not a true wife. 
And then he thought, " In spite of all \n\ care, 
For all my pains, poor man, for all mv pains, 
She is not faithful to me, and I see her 
Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur's hall." 
Then tho' he loved and reverenced her too much 
To dream she could be of foul act. 
Right thro' his manful breast darted the pang 



584 KNID 



That makes a man in the sweet face of her 
Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable. 
At this he hurl'd his huge limbs out of bed, 
And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried, 
" My charger and her palfrey," then to her, 
" I will ride forth into the wilderness; 
For tho' it seems my spurs are yet to win, 
I have not fall'n so low as some would wish. 
And you, put on your worst and meanest dress 
And ride with me." And Enid ask'd, amazed, 
« If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault." 
But he, " I charge you, ask not, but obey." 
Then she bethought her of a faded silk, 
A faded mantle and a faded veil, 
And moving toward a cedarn cabinet, 
Wherein she kept them folded reverently 
With sprigs of summer laid between the folds, 
She took them, and array'd herself therein. 
Remembering when first he came on her 
Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it. 
And all her foolish fears about the dress, 
And all his journey to her, as himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the court. 

For Arthur on the WMiitsuntide before 
Held court at old Cacrleon upon Usk. 
There on a day, he sitting high in hall, 
Before him came a forester of Dean, 
Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart 
Taller than all his fellows, milky-white. 
First seen that day: these things he told the king. 
Then the good king gnve order to let blow 
His horns for hunting on the morrow morn. 
And when the Queen petition'd for his leave 
To see the hunt, allow'd it easily. 
So with the morning all the court were gone. 
But Guinevere lav late into the morn, 
Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming of her love 
For Lancelot, and forgetful of the hunt; 
But rose at last, a single maiden with her. 
Took }iorse, and forded Usk, and gain'd the wood; 
There, on a little knoll beside it, stay'd 
Waiting to hear the hounds; but heard instead 
A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince Geraint, 



ENID. 585 

Late also, wearing neitlier hunting dress 

Nor weapon, save a goiden-hilted brand, 

Came quickly flashing thro' the shallow ibrd 

Behind them, and so gallop'd up the knoll. 

A purple scarf, at either end whereof 

There swung an apple of the purest gold, 

Sway'd round about him, as he gallop'd up 

To join them, glancing like a dragon-fly 

In summer suit and silks of holiday. 

Low bow'd the tributary Prince, and she, 

Sweetly and stalely, and with all grace 

Of womanhood and queenhood, answer'd him: 

" Late, late, Sir Prince," she said, " later than we ! " 

"Yea, noble Queen," he answer'd, "and so late 

That I but come like you to see the hunt, 

Not join it." "Therefore wait with me," she said; 

"For on this little knoll, if anywhere. 

There is good chance that we shall hear thp hounds; 

Here often the)- break covert at our feet." 

And while they listen'd for the distant hunt. 
And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, 
King Arthur's hound of deepest mouth, there rode 
Full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf; 
Whereof the dwarf lagg'd latest, and the knight 
Had visor up, and shovv'd a youthful face. 
Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments. 
And Guinevere, not mindful of his face 
In the king's hall, desired his name, and sent 
Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf; 
Who being vicious, old, antl irritable, 
And doubling all his master's vice of pride. 
Made answer sharply that she should not know. 
" Then will I ask it of himself," she said. 
" Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not," cried the dwarf; 
" Thou art not worthy ev'n to speak of him ; " 
And when she put her horse toward the knight. 
Struck at her with his whip, and she return'd 
Indignant to the Queen; at which Geraint 
Exclaiming, " Surel}' I will learn the name," 
Made shaiply to the dwarf, and ask'd it of him. 
Who answered as before; and when the Prince 
Had put his horse in motion toward the knight, 
Struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek. 



586 ENID. 



The Prince's blood spirted upon the scarf, 

Dyeing it; and his quick, instinctive li;ind 

Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him: 

But he, from his exceeding maiifulness 

And pure nobility of temperament, 

Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrain'd 

From ev'n a word, and so returning, said: 

" I will avenge this insult, noble Queen, 
Done in )'our maiden's person to yourself: 
And I will track this vermin to their earths: 
For the' I ride unarm'd, I do not doubt 
To find, at some place I shall come at, arms 
On loan, or else for pledge; and, being found. 
Then will I fight him, and will break his pride. 
And on the third day will again be here 
So that I be not fall'n in fight. Farewell." 

"Farewell, fliir Prince," answer'd the stately Queen. 
" Be prosperous in this journey, as in all; 
And may vou light on all things that }'ou love. 
And live to wed with her whom first you love: 
But ere you wed with any, bring your bride, 
And I, were she the daughter of a king. 
Yea, tho' she were a beggar from the hedge, 
Will clothe her for her bridals like the sun." 



And Prince Geraint, now thinking that he heard 
The noble hart at bay, now the far horn 
A little vext at losing of the hunt, 
A little at the vile occasion, rode. 
By ups and downs, thro' many a grassy glade 
And valley, with fixt eye, following the three. 
At last they issued from the world of wood. 
And climb'd upon a fair and even ridge. 
And show'd themselves against the sky, and sank. 
And thither came Geraint, ;ind underneath 
Beheld the long street of a little town 
In a long valley, on one side of which. 
White from the mason's hand, a fortress rose: 
And on one side a castle in decay, 
Beyond a bridge that spann'd a dry ravine: 
And out of town and vallev came a noise 



ENID. 



587 



As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed 
Brawling, or like a clamor of the rooks 
At distance, ere they settle for the night. 

And onward to the fortress rode the three, 
And enter'd, and were lost behind the walls. 
" So," thought Geraint, " I have track'd him to his earth." 
And down the long street, riding wearily, 
Found every hostel full, and every where 







Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss 

And bustling whistle of tlie youth who scour'd 

His master's armor; and of such a one 

He ask'd, " What means the tumult in the town?" 

Who told him, scouring still, « The sparrow-hawk I" 

Then riding close behind an ancient churl, 

Wlio smitten by the dusty sloping beam. 



fSS ENID. 



Went sweating underneath a sack of" corn, 

Ask'd yet once more what meant the hubbub here? 

Who answered gruffl}', "Ugh! the sparrow-hawk." 

Then, riding further past an armorer's, 

Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd above his work, 

Sat riveting a helmet on his knee. 

He put the selfsame query, but the man 

Not turning round, nor looking at him, said: 

«' Friend, he that labors for the sparrow-hawk 

Has little time for idle questioners." 

Whereat Geraint flash'd into sudden spleen : 

" A thousand pips eat up your sparrow-hawk! 

Tits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings peck him dead! 

Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg 

The murmur of the world! What is it to me? 

O wretched set of sparrows, one and all, 

Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks! 

Speak, if you be not like the rest, hawk-mad, 

Where can I get me harborage for the night? 

And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy? Speak! " 

At this the armorer turning all amazed 

And seeing one so gay in purple silks, 

Came forward with the hehuet yet in hand 

And answer'd, "Pardon me, O stranger knight; 

We hold a tourney here to-morrow morn, 

And there is scaiitly time for half the work. 

Arms? truth! I know not: all are wanted here, 

Harborage? truth, good truth, I know not, save, 

It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the bridge 

Yonder." He spoke and fell to work again. 

Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet, 
Across the bridge that spann'd the dry ravine. 
There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl, 
(His dress a suit of fray'd magnificence. 
Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said: 
" Whither, fair son?" to whom Geraint replied, 
" O friend, I seek a harborage for the night." 
Then Yniol. " Enter therefore and partake 
The slender entertainment of a house 
Once rich, now poor, but ever open-door'd." 
" Thanks, venerable friend," replied Geraint : 
" So that you do not serve me sparrow-hawks 
For supper, I will enter, I will eat 



ENID. 589 

With all the passion of a twelve hours' fast." 
Then sigh'd and smiled the hoary-headed Earl, 
And answer'd, "Graver cause than yours is mine 
To curse this iiedgerow thief, the sparrow-hawk: 
But in, go in; for, save yourself desire it, 
We will not touch upon him ev'n in jest." 

Then rode Geraint into the castle court, 
His charger trampling many a prickly star 
Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones. 
He look'd and saw that all was ruinous. 
Here stood a shatter'd archway plumed with fern; 
And here had fall'n a great part of a tower, 
Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff, 
And like a crag was gay with wilding Howers: 
And high above a piece of turret stair. 
Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound 
Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems 
Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred arms, 
And suck'd the joining of the stones, and look'd 
A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove. 

Ana while he waited in the castle court, 
The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang 
Clear thro' the open casement of the Hall, 
Singing: and as the sweet voice of a bird, 
Heard by the lander in a lonely isle. 
Moves him to think what kind of bird it is 
That sings so delicately clear, and make 
Conjecture of the plumage and the form; 
So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint; 
And made him like a man abroad at morn 
When first the liquid note beloved of men 
Comes flying over manv a windy wave 
To Britain, and in April suddenly 
Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with green and red, 
And he suspends his converse with a friend. 
Or it may be the labor of his hands. 
To think or say, " there is the nightingale; " 
So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said, 
" Here, by God's grace, is the one voice for me." 

It chanced the song that Enid sang was one 
Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang: 



590 



ENID. 



"Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud; 
Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. 

"Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; 
With that wild wheel we go not up or down ; 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. 

" Smile and we sniilc, the lords of nianv lands: 
Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands ; 
For man is man and master of his fate. 

" Turn, turn thy wheel abo\e the staring crowd ; 
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate." 

" Hark, by the bird's .song' you may learn the nest," 
Said Yniol; "Enter quickly." Entering then, 
Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen stones. 
The dusty-rafter'd many-cobweb'd Hall, 
He found an ancient dame in dim brocade, 
And near her, like a blossom vermeil-white, 




That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath, 
Aloved the fair Enid, all in faded silk, 
Her daughter. In a moment thought Geraint, 
" Here by God's rood is the one inaid for me." 



ENID. 591 

But none spake word except the hoary Earl: 
" Enid, the good knight's hoi'se stands in the court 
Take him to stall, and give him corn, and then 
Go to the town and buy us flesh and wine: 
And we will make us merry as w^e may. 
Our hoard is little, but oar hearts are gretit." 

He spake: the Prince, as Enid past him, fain 
To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol cajght 
His purple scarf, and held, and said " Forber.r! 
Rest ! the good house, tho' ruin'd, O i.u' Son, 
Endures not that her guest should serve himself." 
And reverencing the custom of the house 
Geraint, from utter courtesy, forebore. 
So Eniti took his charger to the stall; 
And after went her way across the bridge. 
And reach'd the town, and while the Prince and Earl 
Yet spoke together, came again with one, 
A youth, that following with a costrel bore 
The means of goodly welcome, flesh and wine. 
And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer. 
And in her veil enfolded, manchet bread. 
And then, because their hall must also serve 
For kitchen, boil'd the flesh, and spread the board. 
And stood behind, and waited on the three. 
And seeing her so sweet and serviceable, 
Geraint had longing in him evermore 
To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb. 
That crost the trencher as she laid it down : 
But after all had eaten, then Geraint, 
For now the wine made summer in his veins. 
Let his ej'e rove in following, or rest 
On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work. 
Now here, now there, about the dusky hall: 
Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl: 

"Fair Host and Earl, I pray your courtesy; 
This sparrow-hawk, what is he, tell me of him. 
His name? but no, good faith, I will not have it: 
For if he be the knight whom late I saw 
Ride into that new fortress by your town, 
White from the mason's hand, then have I sworn 
From his own lips to have it — I am Geraint 
Of Devon — for this morning when the Queen 



592 ENID. 



Sent her own maiden to demand the name, 
His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing, 
Struciv at her with his whip, and she return'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; and then I swore 
That I would track this caitiff to his hold. 
And fight and break his pride, and have it of him. 
And all unarm'd I rode, and thought to find 
Arms in your town, where all the men are mad; 
They take the rustic murmur of their bourg 
For the great wave that echoes round the world; 
They would not hear me speak : but if j'ou know 
Where I can light on arms, or if yourself 
Should have them, tell me, seeing I have sworn 
That I will break his pride and learn his name, 
Avenging this great insult done the Queen." 

Then cried Earl Yniol: "Art thou he indeed, 
Geraint, a name far-sounded among men 
For noble deeds? and truly I, when first 
I saw you moving by me on the bridge, 
Felt )'ou were somewhat, yea and by 3'oin' state 
And presence might have guess'd 3'ou one of those 
That eat in Arthur's hall at Camelot. 
Nor speak I now from foolish flattery ; 
For this dear child hath often heard me praise 
Your feats of arms, and often vviien I paused 
Hath ask'd again, and ever loved to hear; 
So grateful is the noise of noble deeds 
To noble hearts who see but acts of wrong 

never yet had woman such a pair 

Of suitors as this maiden; first Limours, 

A creature wholly given to brawls and wine, 

Drunk even when he woo'd; and be lie dead 

1 know not, but he passed to the wild land. 
The second was your foe, the sparrow-hawk. 
My curse, my nephew, — I will not let his name 
Slip from my lips if I can heljD it, — he. 

When I that knew him fierce and turbulent 

Refused her to him, then his pride awoke; 

And since the proud man often is the mean, 

He sowed a slander in the common ear. 

Affirming that his father left him gold. 

And in my charge, which was not render'd to him; 

Bribed with large promises the men who served 



£-V/z>. 593 

About my person, the more easily 

Because my means were somewhat broken uito. 

Thro' open doors and hospitaUty; 

Raised my own town against me in the night 

Before my Enid's birthday, sack'd my honse; 

From mine own earldom foully ousted me; 

Built that new fort to overawe my friends, 

For truly there are those who love me vet; 

And keeps me in this ruinous castle here. 

Where doubtless he would put me soon to death, 

But that his pride too much despises me: 

And I myself sometimes despise myself: 

For I have let men be, antl have their way; 

And much too gentle, have not used my power. 

Nor know I whether I be very base 

Or very manful, whether very wise , 

Or very foolish; only this I know, 

That whatsoever evil happen to me, 

I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb, 

But can endure it all most patiently." 

"Well said, true heart," replied Geraint, "but arms. 
That if, as. I suppose, your nephew fights 
In next day's tourney I may break his pride." 

And Yniol answered: "Arms, indeed, but old 
And rusty, old and rusty. Prince Geraint, 
Are mine, and therefore at your asking, yours, 
But in this tournament can no man tilt. 
Except the lady he loves best be there. 
Two forks are fixt into the meadow ground, 
And over these is laid a silver wand. 
And over that is placed the sparrow-hawk, 
The prize of beauty for the fairest there. 
And this, what knight soever be in field 
Lays claim to for the lady at his side. 
And tilts with my good nephew thereupon, 
Who being apt at arms and big of bone 
Has ever won it for the lady with him, 
And toppling over all antagonism 
Has earn'd himself the name of sparrow-hawk. 
But you, that have no lady, cannot fight." 



38 



594 ENfD. 



To whom Geraint with e_ves aU bright lephed, 
Leaning a httle toward him, "Your leave! 
Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host, 
For this dear child, because I never saw, 
Tho' hacing seen all beauties of our time. 
Nor can see elsew^here, anything so fair. 
And if I fall her name will yet remain 
Untarnish'd as before; but if I live, 
So aid me Heaven when at mine uttermost, 
As I will make her truly my true wife." 

Then, howsoever patient, Yniol's heart 
Danced in his bosom, seeing better days. 
And looking round he saw not Enid there 
(Who hearing her own name had slipt awav I, 
But that old dame, to whom full tenderly 
And fondling all her hand in his he said, 
" Mother, a maiden is a tender thing, 
And best by her that bore her understood. 
Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest 
Tell her, and prove her heart toward the Prince." 

So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and she 
With frequent smile and nod departing found 
Half disarray'd as to her rest, the girl ; 
Whom first she kiss'd on either cheek, and then 
On cither shining shoulder laid a hand, 
And kept her off and gazed upon her face, 
And told her all their converse in the hall. 
Proving her heart; but never light and shade 
Coursed one another more on open ground 
Beneath a troubled heaven, then red and pale 
Across the face of Enid hearing her; 
Whilst slowly falling as a scale that falls, 
When weight is added only grain by grain. 
Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast; 
Nor did she lift an eve nor speak a word. 
Rapt in the fear and in the ^vonder of it; 
So moving without answer to her rest 
She found no rest, and ever fail'd to draw 
The quiet night into her blood, but lay 
Contemplating her own un worthiness; 
And when the pale and bloodless east began 
To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised 



ENID. 595 

Her mother too, and hand in hand they moved 
Down to the meadow -A'here the jousts were held, 
And waited there for Ynlol and Geraint. 

And thither came the twain, and when Geraint 
Belield lier first in field, awaiting him, 
lie felt, were she the prize of bodily force, 
Himself be)-ond the rest pushing could move 
The chair of Idris. Yniol's rusted arms 
Were on his princely person, but thro' these 
Princelike his bearing shone; and errant knights 
And ladies came, and by and by the town 
Flow'd in, and settling circled all the lists. 
And there they fixt the forks into the ground, 
And over these they placed a silver wand. 
And over that a golden sparrow-hawk. 
Then Yniol's nephew, after trumpet blown, 
Spake to the lady with him and proclaim'd 
"Advance and take as fairest of the fair. 
For I these two years past have won it for thee, 
The prize of beauty." Loudly spake the Prince, 
"Forbear: there is a worthier," and the knight 
With some surprise and tiirice as much disdain 
Turn'd, and beheld the four, and all his face 
Glow 'd like the heart of a great fire at Yule, 
So burnt he was with passion, crying out, 
"Do battle for it then," no more; and thrice 
They clash'd together, and thrice they brake their spears. 
Then each, dishorsed and drawing, lash'd at each 
So often, and with such blows, that all the crowd 
\Vonder'd, and now and then from distant walls 
There came a clapping as of phantom hands. 
So twice they fought, and twice they breathed, and still 
The dew of their great labor, and the blood 
Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain'd their force. 
But cither's force was match'd till Yniol's cry, 
"Remember that great insult done the Queen," 
Increased Geraint's, who heaved his blade alot't. 
And crack'd the helmet thro', and bit the bone. 
And fell'd him, and set foot upon his breast. 
And said, "Thy name?" To whom the fallen man 
Made answer, groaning, "Edyrn, son of Nndd! 
Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee. 
My pride is broken : men have seen my foil." 



598 ENID. 



"Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd," replied Geraint, 
"These two things shalt thou do, or else thou diest. 
First, thau thyself, thy lady and thy dwarf, 
Shalt ride to Arthur's court, and being there. 
Crave pardon for that insult done the Queen, 
And shalt abide her judgment on it; next, 
Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy kin. 
These two things shalt thou do, or thou shalt die." 
And Edyrn ansvver'd, "These things will I do, 
For I have never yet been overthrown. 
And thou hast overthrown me, and my pride 
Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall !" 
And rising up, he rode to Arthur's court, 
And there the Queen forgave him easily. 
And being young, he changed himself, and grew 
To hate the sin that seem'd so like his 0V)'n, 
Of Modred, Arthur's nephew, and fell at last 
In the great battle fighting for the king. 

But when the third day from the hunting-morn 
Made a low splendor in the world, and wings 
Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay 
With her fair head in the dim-yellow light. 
Among the dancing shadows of the birds. 
Woke and bethought her of her promise given 
No later than last eve to Prince Geraint — 
So bent he seem'd on going the third day, 
He would not leave her, till her promise given — 
To ride with him this morning to the court. 
And there be made known to the stately Queen, 
And there be wedded with all ceremonv. 
At this she cast her eyes upon her dress, 
And thought it never yet had look'd so mean. 
For as a leaf in mid-November is 
To what it was in mid-October, seem'd 
The dress that now she look'd on to the dress 
She look'd on ere the coming of Geraint. 
And still she look'd, and still the terror grew 
Of that strange bright and dreadful thing, a court. 
All staring at her in her faded silk: 
And softly to her own sweet heart she said : 

"This noble Prince who won our earldom back, 
So splendid in his acts and his attire. 



ayjjj. 597 

Sweet heaven! how much I shall discredit him! 
Would he could tarry with us here awhile! 
But being so beliolden to the Prince 
It were but little grace in any of us, 
Bent as he seem'd on going this third dav, 
To seek a second favor at his hands. 
Yet if he could but tarry a day or two. 
Myself would \vork eye dim, and finger lame, 
Far liefer than so much discredit him." 

And Enid fell in longing for a dress 
All branch'd and flower'd with gold, a costly gift 
Of her good mother, given her on the night 
Before her birthday, three sad years ago, 
That night of fii-e, when Edyrn sack'd their house, 
And scatter'd all they had to all the winds: 
For while the mother shovv'd it, and the two 
Were turning and admiring it, the work 
To both appealed so costly, rose a cry 
That Edyrn's men were on them, and they fled 
With little save the jewels they had on, 
Which being sold and sold had bought them n:ead: 
And Edyrn's men had caught them in their flight, 
And placed them in this ruin; and she wish'd 
The Prince had found her in her ancient home; 
Then let her fimcy flit across the past, 
And roam the goodly places that she knew; 
And last bethought her how she used to watch. 
Near that old home, a pool of golden carp; 
And one was patch'd and blurr'd and lustreless 
Among his burnish'd brethren of the pool; 
And half asleep she made comparison 
Of that and these to her own faded self 
And the gay court, and fell asleep again; 
And dreamt herself was such a faded form 
Among her burnish'd sisters of the pool; 
But this was in the garden of the king; 
And tho' she lay dark in the pool, she knew 
That all was bright; that all about were birds 
Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work; 
That all the turf was rich in plots that look'd 
Each like a garnet or a turkis in it; 
And lords and ladies of the higii court went 
In silver tissue talking things of state; 



598 ENID. 



And children of the king in cloth of gold 

Glanced at the doors or gambol'd down the walks; 

And while she thought " they will not see rr.e," came 

A stately queen whose name was Guinevere, 

And all the children in their cloth of gold 

Ran to her, crying, " If we have fish at all 

Let them be gold : and charge the gardeners now 

To pick the faded creature from the pool, 

And cast it on the mixen that it die." 

And there withal one came and seized on her, 

And Enid started waking, with her heart 

All overshadow'd by the foolish dream, 

And lo! it was her mother grasping her 

To get her well awake; and in her hand 

A suit of bright apparel, which she laid 

Flat on the couch, and spoke exultingly: 

" See here, my child, how fresh the colors look, 
How fast they hold, like colors of a shell 
That keeps the wear and polish of the wave. 
Why not? it never yet was worn, I trow; 
Look on it, child, and tell me if }'ou know it.'' 

And Enidlook'd, but all confused at first. 
Could scarce divide it from her foolish dream, 
Then suddenly she knew it and rejoiced. 
And answer'd, " Yea, I know it; your good gift. 
So sadly lost on that unhappy night; 
Your own good gift! " " Yea, surely," said the dame, 
"And gladly given again this hqppy morn. 
For when the jousts were ended yesterday. 
Went Yniol thro' the town, and everywhere 
He found the sack and plunder of our house 
All scatter'd thro' the houses of the town : 
And gave command that all which once was ours. 
Should now be ours again; and yester-eve. 
While you were talking, sweetly with your Prince, 
Came one with this and laid it in my hand. 
For love or fear, or seeking favor of us, 
Because we have our earldom back again. 
And yester-eve I would not tell you of it. 
But kept it for a sweet surprise at morn. 
Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise? 
For I myself unwillingly have worn 



ENID. 599 

My faded suit, as you, my cliild, have yours, 

And howsoever patient, Yniol his. 

Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house, 
With store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare. 

And page, and maid, and squire, and seneschal, 

And pastime, both of hawk and hound, aiid all 

That appertains to noble maintenance. 

Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house; 

But since our fortune slipt from sun to shade. 

And all thro' that young traitor, cruel need 

Constrain'd us, but a better time has come; 

So clothe yourself in this, that better fits 

Our mended fortunes and a Prince's bride: 

For tho' you won the prize of fairest fair. 
And tho' I heard him call you fairest fair. 

Let never maiden think, however f;iir, 

She is not fairer in new clothes than old. 

And should some great court-lady say, the Prince 

Hath pick'd a ragged-robin from the hedge, 

And like a madman brought her to the court. 

Then vv'ere you shamed, and worse, might shame the Prince 

To whom we are beholden; but I know. 

When my dear child is set forth at her best. 

That neither court nor country, tho' they sought 

Thro' all the provinces like those of old 

That lighted on Queen Esther, has her match." 

Here ceased the kindly mother out of breath; 
And Enid listen'd brightening as she lav; 
Then, as the white and glittering star of mom 
Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by 
Slips into golden cloud, the maiden rose. 
And left her maiden couch, and robed herself, 
Help'd by the mother's careful hand and eye. 
Without a mirror, in the gorgeous gown: 
Who, after, turn'd her daughter round, and said, 
She never yet had seen her half so fair; 
And call'd her like that maiden in the tale, 
Whom Gwydion made by glamor out of flowers, 
And sweeter than the bride of Cassivelaun, 
Flur, for whose love the Roman Csesar first 
Invaded Britain, " but we beat him back. 
As this great Prince invaded us, and we. 
Not beat him back, but welcomed him with joy. 



600 ENID. 



And I can scarcely ride with you to court, 

For old am I, and rough the ways and wild; 

But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall dream 

I see my princess as I see her now, 

Cloth'd with my gift, and gay among the gay." 

But whilst the women thus rejoiced, Geraint 
Woke where he slept in the high hall, and call'd 
For Enid, and when Yniol made report 
Of tiiat good mother making Enid gay 
In such apparel as might well beseem 
His princess, or indeed the stately queen. 
He answer'd, " Earl, entreat her by my love. 
Albeit I give no reason but my wish. 
That she ride with me in her faded silk." 
Yniol with that hard message went; it fell. 
Like flaws in summer laying lust}' corn: 
For Enid, all abash'd, she knew not why. 
Dared not to glance at her good mother's face, 
But silently, in all obedience. 
Her mother silent too, nor helping her. 
Laid from her limbs the costh'-broider'd gift. 
And robed them in her ancient suit again. 
And so descended. Never man rejoiced 
More than Geraint to greet her thus attired: 
And glancing all at once as keenly at her, 
As careful robins eye the delver's toil, 
Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall, 
But rested with her sweet face satisfied; 
Then seeing cloud upon the mother's brow. 
Her by both hands he caught, and sweetly said : 

" O my new mother, be not wroth or grieved 
At j'our new son, for my petition to her. 
When late I left Caerleon, our great Queen, 
In words whose echo lasts, the}' were so sweet. 
Made promise that whatever bride I brought. 
Herself would clothe her like the sun in Heaven. 
Thereafter, when I reach'd this ruin'd hold, 
Beholding one so bright in dark estate, 
I vow'd that could I gain her, our kind Queen, 
No hand but hers, should make your Enid burst 
Sunlike from cloud — and likewise thought perhaps, 
That service done so graciouslv would bind 



ENID. 601 

The two together; for I wish the two 

To love e;ich other: how should Enid find 

A nobler friend? Another thought I had; 

I came among you here so suddenly, 

That tho' her gentle presence at the lists 

Might well have served for proof that 1 was loved, 

I doubted whether filial tenderness, 

Or easy nature, did not let itself 

Be moulded by your wishes for her weal; 

Or whether some false sense in her own self 

Of mj' contrasting bi'ightness, overbore 

Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall; 

And such a sense might make her long for court 

And all its dangerous glories: and I thought. 

That could I someway prove such force in her 

Link'd with such love for me, that at a word 

(No reason given her) she could cast aside 

A splendor dear to women, new to her 

And therefore dearer; or if not so new, 

Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power 

Of intermitted custom : then I felt 

That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and flows, 

Fixt on her faith. Now, therefore, I do rest, 

A prophet certain of my prophecy, 

That never shadow of mistrust can cross 

Between us. Grant me jjardon for my thoughts: 

And for my strange petition I will make 

Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day. 

When vour fair child shall wear your costly gift 

Beside your own warm hearth, with, on her knees. 

Who knows? another gift of the high God. 

Whicli, maybe, shall have learn'd to lisp you thanks." 

He spoke, the mother smiled, but half in tears. 
Then brought a mantle down and wrapt her in it, 
And claspt and kiss'd her, and they rode away. 

Now thrice that morning Guinevere had climb''J 
The giant tower, from whose high crest, they say. 
Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, 
And white sails flying on the yellow sea; 
But not to goodly hill or yellow sea 
Look'd the fair Queen, but up the vale of Usk, 
By the flat meadow, till she saw them come 



602 KNID. 



And then descending met them at the ^ates, 
Embraced her with all welcome as a I'riend, 
And did her honor as the Prince's bride, 
And clothed her for her bridals like the sun; 
And all that week was old Caerleon gay, 
For b}' the hands of Dubric, the high saint, 
They twain were wedded with all ceremony. 

And this was on the last year's Whitsuntide. 
But Enid ever kept the faded silk. 
Remembering how first he came on her, 
Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, 
And all the foolish fears about the dress, 
And all his journey toward her, as himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the court. 

And now this morning when he said to her, 
" Put on your worst and meanest dress," she found 
And took it, and array'd herself therein. 



II. 



O purblind race of miserable men. 
How many among us at this ver3' hour 
Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, 
By taking true for false, or false for true; 
Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this world 
Groping, how many, until we pass and reach 
That other, where we see as we are seen! 

So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forth 
That morning, when they both had got to horse. 
Perhaps because he loved her passionately. 
And felt that tempest brooding round his heart. 
Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce 
Upon a head so dear in thunder, said : 
" Not at my side! I charge you ride before, 
Ever a good way on before; and this 
I charge you, on your duty as a wife. 
Whatever happens, not to speak to me, 
No, not a word!" and Enid was aghast: 
And forth the}' rode, but scarce three paces on. 
When crying out, "Effeminate as I am, 



ENID. 603 

I will not fight my way with gilded arms, 
All shall be iron;" he loosed a mighty purse, 
Hung at his belt, and hurl'd it toward the squire. 
So the last sight that Enid had of home 
Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown 
With gold and scatter'd coinage, and the squire 
Chafing his shoulder; then he cried again, 
" To the wilds! " and Enid leading down the tracks 
Thro' which he bade her lead him on, they past 
The marches, and by bandit-haunted holds, 
Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hern, 
And wildernesses, perilous paths, they rode: 
Round was their pace at first, but slacken'd soon: 
A stranger meeting them had surely thought, 

They rode so slowly and the\' looked so pale. 

That each had suffer'd some exceeding wrong. 
For he was ever saying to himself, 

" O I that wasted time to tend upon her. 

To compass her with sweet observances. 

To dress her beautifully and keep her true " 

And there he broke the sentence in his heart 

Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue 

May break it, when his passion masters him. 

And she was ever praying the sweet heavens 

To save her dear lord wliole from any wound. 

And ever in her mind siie cast about 

For that unnoticed failing in herself, 

Which made him look so cloudy and so cold; 

Till the great plover's human whistle amazed 

Her heart, and glancing round the waste she fear'd 

In every wavering brake an ambuscade. 

Then thought again " If there be such in me, 
I might amend it bv the grace of heaven, 

If he would only speak and tell me of it." 

But when the fourth part of the da_y was gone, 
Then Enid was aware of three tall knights 
On horseback, wholly arm'd, behind a rock 
In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all ; 
And heard one crying to his fellow, " Look', 
Here comes a laggard hanging down his head. 
Who seems no bolder than a beaten hound; 
Come, we will slay him and will have his horse 
And armor, and his damsel shall be ours." 



(504 ENID. 



Then Enid ponder'd in her heart, and said: 
«♦ I will go back a little to my lord. 
And I will tell him all their caitiff talk; 
For, be he wroth even to slaying me, 
Far lievcr bv his dear hand had 1 die, 
Than that my lord should suffer loss or shame." 

Then she went back some paces of return, 
Met his full frown timidly firm, and said: 
« Mv lord, I saw three bandits by the rock 
Waiting to fall on vou, and heard them boast 
That they would slay you, and possess your horse 
And armor, and your damsel should be thfirs." 

He made a wrathful answer. " Did I wish 
Your warning or your silence? one command 
I laid upon you, not to speak to me, 
And thus you keep ii! Well then, look — for now. 
Whether you wish me victory or defeat, 
Long for my life, or hunger for my death, 
Yourself shall see my vigor is not lost." 

Then Enid waited pale and sorrowful, 
And down upon him bare the bandit three. 
And at the midmost charging. Prince Geraint 
Drave the long spear a cubit thro' his breast 
And out beyond; and then against his brace 
Of comrades, each ot whom had broken on him 
A lance that splinter'd like an icicle. 
Swung from his brand a windy buffet out 
Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunn'd tiie twain 
Or slew them, and dismounting like a man 
That skins the wild beast after slaying him, 
Stript from the three dead wolves of vvomm born 
The three gay suits of armor which they wore, 
And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits 
Of armor on their horses, each on each. 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the three 
Together, and said to her, "drive them on 
Before you;" and she drove them thro' the waste. 

He follow'd nearer: ruth began to work 
Against his anger in him, while lie watchVl 



EXID. 605 

The being he loved best in all the world, 

With difficulty in mild obedience 

Driving them on: he t":iin had spoken to her. 

And loosed in words of sudden fire the wrath 

And smoulderVl wrong that burnt him all within; 

But evermore it seem'd an easier thing 

At once without remorse to strike her dead, 

Than to cry "Halt," and to her own bright face 

Accuse her of the least immodesty: 

And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the more 

That she co«/(!? speak whom his own ear had heard 

Call herself false: and suffering thus he made 

Minutes an age: but in scarce longer time 

Than at Caerleon the fall-tided Usk, 

Before he turn to full seaward again. 

Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold 

In the first shallow shade of a deep wood. 

Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks, 

Three other horsemen waiting, wholly arm'd, 

Whereof one seem'd far larger than her lord. 

And shook her pulses, crying, " Look, a prize! 

Three horses and three goodly suits of arms. 

And all in charge of whom? a girl: set on." 

"Naj^" said the second, "yonder comes a knight." 

The third, "A craven! how he hangs his head." 

The giant answer'd merrily, "Yea, but one? 

Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him." 

And Enid ponder'd in her heart and said, 
"I will abide the coming of my lord, 
And I will tell him all their villany. 
My lord is weary with the fight before, 
And they will fall upon him unawares. 
I needs must disobey him for his good; 
How should I dare obey him to his harm? 
Needs must I speak, and tho' he kill nic for it, 
I save a life dearer to me than mine." 



And she abode his coming, and said to him 
With timid firmness, " Have I leave to speak?" 
He said, " You take it, speaking," and she spoke. 
"There lurk three villains vonder in the wood, 
And each of them is wholly arm'd, and one 



606 ENID. 



Is larger-limb'd than you are, and they say 
That they will fall upon you while you pass." 

To which he flung a wrathful answer back: 
"And if there were an hundred in the wood, 
And every man were larger-limb'd than I, 
And all at once should sail}' out upon me, 
I swear it would not ruffle me so much 
As you that not obey me. Stand aside, 
And if I fall, cleave to the better man." 

And Enid stood aside to wait the event, 
Nor dare to watch the combat, onlv breathe 
Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath. 
And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon him. 
Aim'd at the helm, his lance err'd; but Gerr.int's, 
A little in the late encounter strain'd, 
Struck thro' the bulky bandit's corselet home, 
And then brake short, and down his enemy roil'd 
And there lay still : as he that tells the tale, 
Saw once a great piece of a promontory. 
That had a sapling growing on it, slip 
From the long shore-cliff's windy walls to the beach, 
And there lie still, and yet the sapling grew : 
So lay the man transfixt. His craven pair 
Of comrades, making slowlier at the Prince, 
When now they saw their bulwark fallen, stood; 
On whom the victor, to confound them nioie, 
Spurr'd with his terrible war-cry ; for as one. 
That listens near a torrent mountain-brook, 
All thro' the crash of the near cataract hears 
The drumming thunder of the huger fall 
At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear 
His voice in battle, and be kindled by it, 
And foemen scared, like that false pair who turn'd 
Flying, but, overtaken, died the death 
Themselves had wrought on many an innocent. 

Thereon Geraint, dismounting, pick'd the lance 
That pleased him best, and drew from those dead wolves 
Their three gay suits of armor, each from each, 
And bound them on their horses, each on each. 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the three 



ENID. 6OT 

Together, and said to her, "Drive tliem on 
Before you," and she drove them thro' the wood. 

He foliow'd nearer still ; the pain she had 
To keep them in the wild ways of the wood, 
Two sets of three laden with jingling arms, 
Together, served a little to disedge 
The sharpness of that pain about her heart; 
And they themselves, like creatures gently born 
But into bad hands fall'n, and now so long 
By bandits groom'd, prick'd their light ears, and felt 
Her low lirm voice and tender government. 

So thro' the green gloom of the wood they past. 
And issuing under open heavens beheld 
A little town with towers, upon a rock, 
And close beneath, a meadow gemlike chased 
In the brown wild, and mowers mowing in it: 
And down a rocky pathway from the place 
There came a fair-hair'd youth, tliat in his hand 
Bare victual for the mowers: and Geraint 
Had ruth again on Enid looking pale: 
Then, moving downward to the meadow ground. 
He, when tlie fair-hair'd youth came bv him, said 
"Friend, let lier eat; the damsel is so faint." 
" Yea, willingly," replied the youth; "and you, ' 

My lord, eat also, tho' the fare is coarse. 
And only meet for mowers;" then set down 
His basket, and dismounting on the sward 
They let the horses graze, and ate themselves. 
And Enid took a little delicately, 
Less having stomach for it than desire 
To close with her lord's pleasure; but Geraint 
Ate all the mowers' victual unawares. 
And when he found all emptv, was amazed: 
And "Boy," said he, "I have eaten all, but take 
A horse and arms foi- guerdon; choose the best." 
He, reddening in extremity of delight, ' 

" My lord, you overpay me fifty fold." 
" You will be all the wealthier," cried the Prince. 
" I take it as free gift, then," said the boy, 
" Not guerdon; for myself can easil)'. 
While your good damsel rests, return, and fetch 
Fresh victual for these mowers of our Earl; 



608 ENID. 



For these are his, and all the field is his, 

And I myself am his; and I will tell him 

How great a man you are; he loves to know 

When men of mark are in his territory: 

And he will have you to his palace here, 

And serve you costlier than with mowers' fare." 

Then said Geraint, "I wish no better fare: 
I never ate with angrier appetite 
Than when 1 left your mowers dinnerless. 
And into no Earl's palace will I go. 
I know, God knows, too much of palaces! 
And if he want me, let him come to me. 
But hire us some fair chamber for the night, 
And stalling for the liorses, and return 
With victual for these men, and let ui l;now." 

" Yea, my kind lord," said the glad youth, and went. 
Held his head high, and thought himself a knight, 
And up the rocky pathway disappear'd. 
Leading the horse, and they were left alone. 

But when the Prince had brought his errant eyes 
Home from the rock, sideways he let them glance 
At Enid, where she droopt: his own false doom. 
That shadow of mistrust should never cross 
Betwixt them, came upon him, and he sigh'd; 
Then with another humorous ruth remark'd 
The lusty mowers laboring dinnerless, 
And watch'd the sun blaze on the turning scythe. 
And after nodded sleepily in the heat. 
But she, remembering her old ruin'd hall, 
And all the windy clamor of the daws 
About her hollow turret, pluck'd the grass 
There growing longest by the meadow's edge, 
And into many a listless annulet, 
Now over, now beneath her marriage-ring, 
Wove and unwove it, till the boy return'd 
And told them of a chamber, and they went; 
Where, after saying to her, " If you will. 
Call for the woman of the house," to wiiich 
She answer'd, "Thanks, my lord;" the two remain'd 
Apart by all the chamber's width, and mute 
As creatures voiceless thro' the fault of birth, 



ENID. 



60» 



Or two wild men supporters of a shield, 
Painted, who st:ire at open space, nor glance 
The one at other, parted by the shield. 

On a sudden, many a voice along the street, 
And lieel against the pavement echoing, burst' 
Their drowse, and either started wiiile the door, 
Push'd from without, drave backward to the wall, 







oJ 



And midmost of a rout of roisterers, 

Femininely tair and dissolutelv pale, 

Her suitor in old years before Geraint, 

Enter'd, the wild lord of the place, Limours. 

He moving up with pliant courtliness, 

Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily, 

In the mid-warmth of welcome and graspt hana. 



010 ENID. 



Found Enid with the corner of his eye, 
And knew her sitting sad and solitary. 
Then cried Geiaint for wine and goodly cheer 
To feed the sudden guest, and sumptuously 
According to his fashion, bade the host 
Call in what men soever were his friends, 
And feast with tliese in honor of their earl; 
"And care not for the cost ; the cost is mine." 

And wine and food were brought, and Earl Limoun 
Drank till he jested with all ease, and told 
Free tales, and took the woid and play'd upon it. 
And made it of two colors; for his talk, 
When wine and free companions kindled him, 
Was wont to glance and sparkle like a gem 
Of fifty facets; thus he moved the Prince 
To laughter and his comrades to applause. 
Then, when the Prince was merry, ask'd Limours, 
" Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, and speak 
To vour good damsel there who sits apart 
And seems so lonely?" " My free leave," he said; 
" Get her to speak: she does not speak to me." 
Then rose Limours and looking at his feet. 
Like him who tries the bridge he fears may fail, 
Cro-^t and came near, lifted adoring eyes, 
Bow'd at her side and utter'd whisperingly: 

"Enid, the pilot star of my lone life, 
Enid iny early and my only love, 
Enid the loss of whom has turn'd me wild — 
What chance is this? how is it I see you heie? 
You are in my power at last, are in my power. 
Yet fear me not: I call mine own self wild. 
But keep a touch of sweet civility 
Here in the heart of waste and wilderness. 
I thought, but that your father came between. 
In former days you saw me favorably. 
And if it were so do not keep it back : 
Make me a little happier: let me know it: 
Owe vou me nothing for a life lialf-lost? 
Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you are. 
And, Enid, you and he, I see it with joy — 
You sit apart, you do not speak to him. 
You come with no attendance, page or maid, 



ENID. 6U 

To serve you — does he love you as of old? 

For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know 

Tho' iiieii may bicker with the things they love, 

They would not make them laughable in all eyes, 

Not while they loved them : and your wretched dress, 

A wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks 

Your story, that this man loves you no more. 

Your beauty is no beauty to him now: 

A common chance — righ': well I know it — pall'd— 

For I. know men — nor will vou win him back, 

For the man's love once gone never returns. 

But here is one who loves 3'ou as of old ; 

With more exceeding passion than of old: 

Good, speak the word: my followers ring him round: 

He sits unarm'd; I hold a finger up; 

They understand: no; I do not mean blood; 

Nor need you look so scared at what I say: 

My malice is no deeper than a moat. 

No stronger than a wall: there is the keep: 

He shall not cross us more; speak but the word: 

Or speak it not; but then by Him that made me 

The one true lover which you ever had, 

I will make use of all the power I have. 

O paidon me! the madness of that hour. 

When first I parted from you, moves me yet." 

At this the tender sound of his own voice 
And sweet self-pity, or the fimcy of it, 
Made his eye moist; but Enid fear'd his eyes. 
Moist as they were, wine-heated from the feast; 
And answer'd with such craft as women use. 
Guilty or guiltless, to stave ofF a chance 
That breaks upon them perilously, and said: 

" Earl, if you love me as in former years. 
And do not practice on me, come with morn. 
And snatch me from him as by violence; 
Leave me to-night: I am weary to the death." 

Low at leave-taking, with his brandish'd plume 
Brushing his instep, bow'd the all-amorous Earl, 
And the stout Prince bade him a loud good-night. 
He moving homeward babbled to his men, 



612 ENID 



How Enid never loved a man but him, 
Nor cared a broken earar-slieU for her lord. 



"tiO 



But Enid left alone with Prince Geraint, 
Debating his command of silence given, 
And that she now perforce must violate it, 
Held commune with herself, and while she held 
He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart 
To wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly pleased 
To find him yet unwounded after fight, . 
And hear him breathing low and equally. 
Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heap'd 
The pieces of his armor in one place. 
All to be there against a sudden need ; 
Then dozed awhile herself, but over-toil'd 
By that da^^'s grief and travel, evermore 
Seem'd catching at a rootless thorn, and then 
Went slipping down horrible precipices. 
And strongly striking out her limbs awoke; 
Then thought she heard the wild Earl at the door. 
With all his rout of random followers, 
Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summoning her; 
Which was the red cock shouting to the light. 
As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy world. 
And glimmer'd on his armor in the room. 
And once again she rose to look at it. 
But touch'd it unawares: jangling, the c:.sque 
Fell, and he started up and stared at her. 
Then breaking his command of silence given, 
She told him all that Earl Limours had said, 
Except the passage that he loved her not; 
Nor left untold the craft herself had used; 
But ended with apology so sweet. 
Low-spoken, and of so few words, and seem'd 
So justified by that necessity. 
That tho' he thought " was it for him she wept 
In Devon?" he but gave a wrathful groan, 
Saying "your sweet faces make good fellows fools 
And traitors. Call the host and bid him bring 
Charger and palfrey." So she glided out 
Among the hep.vy breathings of the house, 
And like a household Spirit at the walls 
Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and return'd: 
Then tending her rough lord, tho' all unask'd. 



ENID. 613 

In silence, did him service as a squire; 

Till issuing arm'd he found the host and cried 

"Thy reckoning, friend?" and ere he learnt it, " Take 

Five horses and their armors;" and the host 

Suddenly honest, answer'd in amaze, 

" My lord, I sc:irce have spent the woith of one!" 

" You wfill be all the wealthier," said the Prince, 

And then to Enid, " Forward! and to-day 

I charge you, Enid, more especially. 

What thing soever you may hear or see, 

Or fancy (tho' I count it of small use 

To charge you) that you speak not but obey." 

And Enid answer'd, " Yea, my lord, I know 
Your wish, and would obey: but riding first, 
I heai' the violent threats you do not hear, 
I see the danger whicii you cannot see; 
Then not to give you warning, that seems hard. 
Almost beyond me: yet I would obey." 

"Yea, so," said he, "do it: be not too wise; 
Seeing that you are wediied to a man, 
Not quite mismated with a yawning clown, 
But one with arms to guard his head and yours, 
With eyes to find you out however far. 
And ears to hear you even in his ilreams." 

- With that he turned and looked as keenly at her 
As careful robins eye the delver's toil; 
And that within her which a wanton fool, 
Or hasty judger, would have called her guilt. 
Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall. 
And Geraint look'd and was not satisfied. 

Then forward by a way which, beaten broad. 
Led from the territory of false Limours 
To the waste earldom of another earl, 
Doorm, whom his shaking vassals call'd the Bull, 
Went Enid with her sullen follower on. 
Once she look'd back, and when she saw him ride 
More near by many a rood than yestermoin. 
It wellnigh made her cheerful: till Geraint 
Waving an angry hand as who should say 



814 ENID. 



" You watch me," saddened all her heart again. 

But while the sun yet beat a dewy bhide, 

The sound of many a lieavily-gallopiiig hoof 

Smote on her ear, and turning round she saw 

Dust, and the points of lances bicker in it. 

Then not to disobey her lord's behest, 

And yet to give him warning, for he rode 

As if he heard not, moving back she held 

Her finger up, and pointed to the dust. 

At which the warrior in his obstinacy, 

Because she kept the letter of his word 

Was in a manner pleased, and turning, stood. 

And in the moment after, wild Limours, 

Borne on a black horse, like a thunder-cloud 

Whose skirts are loosen'd by the breaking storm. 

Half ridden off with by the thing he rode, 

And all in passion uttering a dry shriek, 

Dash'd on Geraint, who closed with him and bore 

Down bv the length of lance and arm beyond 

The crupper, and so left him stunn'd or dead, 

And overthrew the next that follow'd him. 

And blindly rush'd on all the rout behind. 

But at the flasli and motion of the man 

They vanish'd panic-stricken, like a shoal 

Of darting fish, that on a summer morn 

Adown the crystal dikes at Camelot 

Come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand. 

But if a man who stands upon the brink 

But lift a shining hand against the sun. 

There is not left the twinkle of a fin 

Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower; 

So, scared but at the motion of the man. 

Fled all the boon companions of the Earl, 

And left him lying in the public way: 

So vanish friendships only made in wine. 

Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Geraint, 
Who saw the chargers of the two that fell 
Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly, 
Mixt with the flyers. " Horse and man," he said, 
"All of one mind and all right-honest friends! 
Not a hoof left; and I methinks till now 
Was honest — paid with horses and with arms: 
I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg: 



ENIL). ol5 

And so what say you, shall we strip him there 

Your lover? has your palfrey heart enough 

To bear his armor? shall we fast or dine? 

No? — then do you, being right honest, pray 

That we may meet the horsemen of Earl Doorm, 

I too would still be honest." Thus he said ; 

And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins. 

And answering not one word, she led the way. , 

But as a man to whom a dreadful loss 
Falls in a far lantl and he knows it not, 
But coming back he learns it, and the loss 
So pains him that he sickens nigh to death ; 
So fared it with Geraint, who being prick'd 
In combat with the follower of Limours, 
Bled underneath his armor secretly, 

And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife ' 

What ail'd him, hardly knowing it himself, 
Till his eye darken'd and his helmet vvagg'd; 
And at a sudden swerving of the road, 
Tho' happily down on a bank of grass, 
The Prince, without a word, from his horse felL 

And Enid lieard the clashing of his fall, 
Suddenly came, and at his side all pale 
Dismounting, loosed the fastenings (jf his arms, 
Nor let her true hand faltei', nor blue eye 
Moisten, till she had lighted on his womul, 
And tearing off lier yeil of faded silk 
Had bared her forehead to the blistering sun, 
And swathed the hurt that drain'd her dear lord's litt. 
Then after all was done that hand could do, 
She rested, and her desolation came 
Upon her, and she wept beside the way. 

And many past, but none regarded her. 
For in that realm of lawless turbulence, 
A woman weejiing for her murder'd mate 
Was cared as much for as a summer shower: 
One took him for a victim'of Earl Doorm, 
Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him: 
Another hurrying past, a man at arms. 
Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl ; 



616 ENID. 



Half whistling raid half singing a coarse song, 
He drove the dust ngainst her veilless eyes; 
Another, flying from the \vrath of Doorm 
Before an ever-fancied arrow, made 
The long way smoke beneath him in his fear; 
At which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel. 
And scour'd into the coppices and was lost, 
While the great charger stood, grieved like a man. 

But at the point of noon the huge Earl D<3orm, 
Broad-faced with under-fringe of russet beard, 
Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey, 
Came riding with a hundred lances up; 
But ere he came, like one that hails a ship, 
Cried out with a big voice, "What, is he dead?" 
"No, no, not dead!" she answer'd in all haste. 
"Would some of your kind people take him up. 
And bear him hence out of this cruel sun; 
Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead." 

Then said Earl Doorm: "Well, if he be not dead, 
Why wail you for him thus? you seem a cliild. 
And be he dead, I count j'ou for a fooi; 
Your wailing will not quicken him: dead or not, 
You mar a comely face with idiot tears. 
Yet, since the face is comely — some of you, 
Here, take him up, and bear him to our iiall: 
And if he live, we will have him of our band; 
And if he die, why earth has earth enough 
To hide him. See ye take the charger too, 
A noble one."' 

He spake, and past away, 
But left two brawny spearmen, who advanced, 
Each growling like a dog, when his good bone 
Seems to be pluck'd at by the village boys 
Who love to vex him eating, and he fears 
To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it. 
Gnawing and growling; so the ruffians growl'd. 
Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man, 
Their chance of booty from the morning's raid; 
Yet raised and laid him on a litter-bier, 
Such as they brought upon their forays out 
For those that might be wounded; laid him on it 
All in the hollow of his shield, and took. 



ENID. 617 

And bore him to the naked hall of Doorm, 
(His gentle charger following him unled) 
And cast him and the bier in which he lay 
Down on an oaken settle in the hall, 
And then departed, hot in haste to join 
Their luckier mates, but grovvlin;T as before, 
And cursing their lost time, and the dead man, 
And their own Earl, and their own souls, and her. 
They might as well have blest her: she was deaf 
To blessing or to cursing save from one. 

So for long hours sat Enid by her lord. 
There in the naked hall, propping his head. 
And chafing his pale hands, and calling to him. 
And at the last he wakenVl from his swoon. 
And found his own dear bride propping his head, 
And chafing his faint hands, and calling to him; 
And left the warm tears falling on his face; 
And said to his own heart, " She weeps for me;" 
And yet lay still, and feign'd himself as dead, • 
That he might prove her to the uttermost, 
And say to his own heart, " She weeps for me." 

But in the falling afternoon retuvn'd 
The iiuge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall. 
His lusty spearmen follow'd him with noise: 
Each hmling down a heap of things that rang 
Against the pavement, cast liis lance aside, 
And doff'd his helm: and then there flutter'd in, 
Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes, 
A tribe of women, dress'd in many hues, 
And mingled with the spearmen: and Eail Doorm 
Struck with a knife's haft hard against the board, 
And callVi for flesh and wine to feed his spears. 
And men brought in whole hogs and quarter beeves, 
And all the hall was dim with steam of flesii: 
And none spake word, but all sat down at once, 
And ate with tumult in the naked hall, 
Feeding like horses when you hear them feed; 
Till Enid shrank far back into herself. 
To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe. 
But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would, 
He roll'd his eyes about the hall, and found 
A damsel drooping in a corner of it. 



W4 ENID. 



Then he remember'd her, and how she wept; 

And out of her there came a power upon him: 

And rising on tlie sudden he said, " Eat! 

I never yet beheld a thing so pale. 

God's curse, it makes me mad to see you weep. 

Eat! Look yourself. Good luck had your good man. 

For were I dead who is it would weep for nie? 

Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath, 

Have I beheld a lily like yourself. 

And so there lived some color in your cheek, 

There is not one among my gentlewomen 

Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove. 

But listen to me, and by me be ruled, 

And I will do the thing I have not done. 

For you shall share my earldom with me, girl, 

And we will live like two birds in one nest, 

And I will fetch you forage fi'om all fields, 

For I compel all creatures to my will." 

He spoke: the brawny spearman let his cheek 
Bulge with the unswallow'd piece, and turning, stared; 
While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drarwix 
Down, as the worm draws in the wither'd leaf 
And makes it earth, hiss'd each at other's ear 
What shall not be recorded — women they. 
Women, or what had been those gracious things, 
But now desired the humbling of their best, 
Yea, would have iielped him to it; and all at once 
Thev hated her, who took no thought of them. 
But answer'd in low voice, her meek head yet 
Drooping, " I pray you of jour courtesy. 
He being as he is, to let me be." 

She spake so low he hardly heard her speak. 
But like a mighty patron, satisfied 
With what himself had done so graciously. 
Assumed that she had thanked him, adding, " Yea, 
Eat and be glad, for I account you mine." 

She answer'd meeklv, " How sliould I be glad 
Henceforth in all the world at anything. 
Until my lord arise and look upon me.'' " 



ENID. 619 

Here tlie huge Enil cried out upon hei" talk. 
As all but empty heart and weariness 
And sickly nothing; suddenly seized on her, 
And bare herlsy main violence to the board, 
And thrust the dish before her, crying, " Eat." 

'■ No, no," said Enid, vext, " 1 will not eat 
Till yonder man upon the bier arise. 

And eat with me." " Drink, then," he answered. "Herel" 
(And fillM a horn with wine and held it to her,) 
" Lo! I, myself, when flush'd with fight, or hot, 
God's curse, with anger, — often I myself. 
Before I well have drunken, scarce can eat: 
Drink therefore, and the wine will change your will." 

" Not so," she cried, "by Heaven, I will not drink. 
Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it, 
And drink with me; and if he rise no more, 
I will not look at wine until I die," 

At this he turn'd all red and pacM his hall, 
Now gnaw'd his under, now his upper lip, 
And coming up close to her, said at last: 
" Girl, for I see you scorn my courtesies, 
Take warning: yonder man is surely dead; 
And 1 compel all creatures to my will. 
Not eat nor drink? And wherefore wail for one. 
Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn 
By dressing it in rags.'' Amazed am I, 
Beholding how you butt against my wish. 
That I forbear you thus: cross me no more. 
At least put off to please me this poor gown, 
This silken rag, this beggar-woman's weed: 
I love that beauty should go beautifully: 
For see you not my gentlewomen here. 
How gay, how suited tc5 the house of one. 
Who loves that beauty should go beautifully! 
Rise therefore; robe yourself in this: obey." 

He spoke, and one among his gentlewomen 
D:spla)'d a splendid silk of foreign loom, 
Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue 
Play'd into green, an(^ thicker down the front 



620 ENID. 



With jewels than the sward with drops of dew, 
When all night long a cloud chngs to the hill, 
And with the dawn ascending lets the dav 
Sti"ii<e where it clung: so thickly shone the gems. 

But Enid answer'd, harder to be moved 
Than hardest tyrants in their day of power, 
With life-long injuries burning unavenged, 
And now their hour has come; and Enid said: 

" In this poor gown my dear lord found me first. 
And lov'd mc serving in my father's hall: 
In this poor gown I rode with him to court, 
And there the Queen array'd mc like the sun: 
In this poor gown he bade me clothe myself, 
When now we rode upon this fatal quest 
Of honor, where no honor can be gain'd: 
And this poor gown I will not cast aside 
Until himself arise a living man. 
And bid me cast it. I have griefs enough: 
Pra}' 3'ou be gentle, pray you let me be: 
I never loved, can never love but him: 
Yea, God, I pray you of your gentleness. 
He being as he is, to let me be." 

Then strotle the brute Earl up and down his hail. 
And took his russet beard between his teeth; 
Last, coming up quite close, and in his mood 
Crying, " I count it of no more avail. 
Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you; 
Take my salute," unknightly with flat hand, 
However lightly, smote her on the cheek. 

Then Enid, in her utter helplessness. 
And since she thought, " he had not dared to do it. 
Except he sureU' knew my lord was dead," 
Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry, 
As of a wild thing taken in the trap. 
Which sees the trapper coming thro' the wood. 

This heard Geraint, and grasping at his sword, 
(It lay beside him in the hollow shield,) 
Made but a single bound, and with a sweep of it 



ENID. tj'ii 

Sliore thro' the swartliy neck, anil like a ball 
The russet-bearded head loll'd on the Hoor. 
So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead. 
And all the men and women in the hall 
Rose when they saw the dead man rise, and fled 
Yelling as from a spectre, and the two 
Were left alone togetiier, and he said: 

" Enid I have used you worse than that dead man; 
Done vou more wrong: we both have undergone 
That trouble which has left me thrice your own: 
Henceforward I will rather die than doubt. 
And here I lav this penance on myself, 
Not, tho' mine own ears heard you yester-morn — 
You thought me sleeping, but I heard you say, 
I heard you say, that you were no true wife: 
I swear I will not ask your meaning in it: 
I do lielieve yourself against yourself. 
And will henceforward rather die than tloubt." 

• 

And Enid could not sav one tender word, 
She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart: 
She only pray'd him, " Fly, they will return 
And slay you; fly, your charger is without. 
My palfrey lost." " Then, Enid, shall you ride 
Behind me." " Yea," said Enid, "let us go." 
And moving out thev found the stately horse, 
Who now no more a vassal to the thief, 
But free to stretch his limbs in lawful fight, 
Neigh'd with all gladness as they came, and stoop'tj 
With a low whinny toward ihe pair: and he 
Klss'd the white star upon his noble front, 
Glad also; then Geraint upon the horse 
Mounted, and reach'd a hand, and on his foot 
She set her own and climb'd; he turn'd his face 
And kissM her climbing, and she cast her arms 
About him, and at once they rode away. 

And never yet, since high in Paradise 
O'er the four rivers the first roses blew. 
Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind, 
Than lived thro' her who in that perilous hour 
Put hand to hand beneath her husband's heart. 



622 ENID. 



And felt him hers again; she did not weep, 

But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist 

Liiie that which kept the heart of Eden green 

Before the useful trouble of the rain : 

Yet not so misty were her meek bhie eyes 

As not to see before them on the path, 

Right in the gateway of the bandit hold, 

A knight of Arthur's court, who hiid his lance 

In rest, and made as if to fall upon him. 

Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of blood. 

She, with her mind all full of what had chanced, 

Shriek'd to the stranger, " Slay not a dead man!" 

" The voice of Enid," said the knight: but she. 

Beholding it was Edyrn son of Nudd, 

Was moved so much the more, and shriek'd again, 

"O cousin, slay not him who gave you life." 

And Edyrn moving frankly forward spake: 

♦' My lord Geraint, I greet you with all love; 

I took you for a bandit knight of Doorm ; 

And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon him. 

Who love you. Prince, with something of the love 

Wherewith we love the Heaven that chastens us. 

For once, when I was up so high in pride 

That I was half wav down the slope to Hell, 

By overthrowing me vou threw me higher, 

Now, made a knight of Artliur's Table Round, • 

And since I knew this Earl, when I myself 

Was half a bandit in my lawless hour, 

I come the mouthpiece of our King to Doorm 

(The King is close behind me) bidding him 

Disband himself, and scatter all his powers. 

Submit, and hear the judgment of the King." 

" He hears the judgment of the King of Kings," 
Cried the wan Prince: " and lo the powers of Doorm 
Are scatter'd," and he pointed to the field 
Where, huddled here and there on mound and knoll 
Were men and women staring and aghast. 
While some yet fled; and then he plainlier told 
How the huge E;irl lav slain within his hall. 
But when the knight besought him, " Follow me 
Prince, to the camp, and in the King's own ear 
Speak what has chanced; you surely have endur'd 
Strange chances here alone;" that other flush'd, 



ENID. 623 

And hung his head, and halted in reply, 

Fearing the mild face of the blameless King-, 

And after madness acted question ask'd : 

Till Edyni crying, " If you will not go 

To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you," 

" Enough," he said, " I follow," and they went. 

But Enid in their going had two fears. 

One from the bandits scatter'd in the field, 

And one from Edyrn. Every now and then, 

When Edyrn rein'd his charger at her side. 

She shrank a little. In a hollow land, 

From which old fires have broken, men mav fear 

Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, said: 

" Fair and dear cousin, you that most had cause 
To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed. 
Yourself were first the blameless cause to make 
JSIy nature's prideful sparkle in the blood 
Break into furious flame; being repulsed 
By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and wrought 
Until I ovcrturn'd him; then set up 
(With one main purpose ever at my heart) 
My haughty jousts, and took a paramour; 
Did her mock-honor as the fairest fair. 
And, toppling over all antagonism, 
.So wax'd in pride, that I believed myself 
Unconquerable, for I was well-nigh mad : 
And, but for my main purpose in these jousts, 
I should have slain vour father, seized yourself. 
I lived in hope that some time you would come 
To these my lists with him whom best you loved; 
And there, .poor cousin, with 3'our meek blue eyes, 
The truest eyes that ever answer'd heaven. 
Behold me overturn and trample on him. 
Then, had you cried, or knelt, or pray'd to me, 
I should not less have killed him. And you came, — - 
But once 3'ou came, — and with your own true eyes 
Beheld the man you loved (I speak as one 
Speaks of a service done him) overthrow 
M}' proud self, and my purpose three years old. 
And set his foot upon me, and give me life. 
There was I broken down; there was I saved: 
Tho' thence I rode all-shamed, hating the life 
He gave me, meaning to be rid of it. 



Q2i ' ENID. 



And all the penance the Queen laid upon nie 

Was but to rest awhile within her court; 

Where first as sullen as a beast new-caged, 

And waiting to be treated like a wolf 

Because I knew my deeds were known, I lound, 

Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn, 

Such fine reserve and noble reticence. 

Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace 

Of tenderest courtesy, that I began 

To glance behind rne at my former lite, 

And find that it had been the wolf's indeed: 

And oft I talk'd with Dubric, the high saint, 

Who, witli mild heat of boh- oratory. 

Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness, 

Wiilch, when it weds with manhood, makes a man. 

And yon were often there about the Queen, 

But saw me not, or marked not if yon sa\v; 

Nor did I care or dare to speak with you. 

But kept myself aloof till I Avas changeii; 

And fear not, cousin; I am changed indeed." 

He spoke, and Enid easily believed. 
Like simple noble natures, credulous 
Of what tbev long for, good in friend or foe. 
There most in those who most have ilone tlicm ill. 
And when they reach'd the camp the king himself 
Advanced to greet them, and beholding her 
Tho' pale, yet happy, ask'd her not a word, 
But went apart with Edyrn, whom he held 
In converse for a little and return'd, 
And gravely smiling, lifted her from horse. 
And kiss'd her with all pureness, brother-like, 
And show'd an empty tent allotted her. 
And glancing for a minute, till he saw her 
Pass into it, turn'd to the Prince, and said: 

"Prince, when of late you pray'd mc for my leave 
To move to your own land, and there del"e:;d 
Your marches, I was prick'd \\ ith some reproof. 
As one that let foul wrong stagnate and be. 
By having look'd too much thro' alien eyes, 
And wrought too long with delegated hands, 
Not used mine own: but now behold me come 
To cleanse this common sewer of all m\ realm, 



ENID. 6^5 

With Eth-iu ami with others: have vou looic'd 
At Edyrn? have 3*011 seen how nobly chang'd? 
This work of his is great and wonderful. 
His very face with change of heart is changed. 
The world will not believe a man repents: 
And this wise world of ours is mainly right. 
Full seldom does a man repent, or use 
Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch 
Of blood and custom wholly out of him, 
And make all clean, and plant him.self afresh. 
Edyrn has done it, weeding all his lieart 
As I will weed this land before I go. 
I, tiierefore, made him of our Table Round, 
Not rashly, but have proved him every \vay 
One of our noblest, our most valorovis, 
Sanest and most obedient: and indeed 
This work of Edyrn wrought upon himself 
After a life of violence, seems to me 
A thousand-fold more great and wonderful 
Than if some knight of mine, risking his life, 
My subject with my subjects under Iiini, 
Should make an onslaught single on a realm 
Of robbers, tho' he slew them one by one, 
And were himself nigh wounded to the death." 

. So spake the king; low bow'd the Prince and fel^ 
His work was neither great nor wonderful. 
And past to Enid's tent; and thither came 
The King's own leech to look into his hurt; 
And Enid tended on him there; and there 
Her constant motion round him, and the breath 
Of her sweet tendance hovering over iiim, 
Fill'd all the genial courses of his blood 
With deeper and with ever deeper love 
At the south-west that blowing Bala lake 
Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the days. 

But while Geraint lay healing of his liurt, 
The blameless King went forth and cast his eves 
On whom his father Uther left in charge 
Long since, to guard the justice of the King: 
He looked and found them wanting; and as now 
Men weed the white horse on the Berkshire hills 
To keep him bright and clean as heretofore, 



40 



626 



EYID. 



He rooted out the slothful officer 

Or guilty, which for bribe had wink'd at wrong, 

And in their chairs set up a stronger race 

With hearts and hands, and sent a thousand men 

To till the wastes, and moving everywhere 

Clear'd the dark places and let in the law. 

And broke tlie bandit holds and cleansed the land. 



Then, when Geraint was whole again, thev past 
With Arthur to Cacrlcon upon Usk. 
There the great Queen once more embrac'd her friend. 
And clothed her in apparel like the day. 
And tho' Geraint could never take again 
That comfort from their converse which he took 
Before the Queen's fair name was breathed upon, 
He rested well content that all was well. 
Thence after tarrying for a space they rode. 
And fifty knights rode with them to the shores 
Of Severn, and they past to their own land. 
And there he kept the justice of the King 
So vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts 
Applauded, and the spiteful whisper died: 
And being ever foremost in the chase. 
And victor at the tilt and tournament. 
They call'd him the great Prince and man of men. 
But Enid, whom her ladies loved to call 
Enid the Fair, a grateful people named > 

Enid the Good ; and in their halls arose 
The cry of children, Enids and Geraints 
Of times to be ; nor did he doubt her more . 
But rested in her fealty, till he crown'd 
A happy life with a fair death, and fell 
Against the heathen of the Northern Sea 
In battle, fighting for the blameless King. 



VIVIEN. 



627 



VIVIEN. 




STORM was coming, but the winds were still, 
Antl in the wild woods of Broceliandc, 
Befoi"c an oalc, so hollow huge and old, 
It look'd a tower of ruin'd masonwork, 
At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lav. 



° j'^^ The wily Vivien stole from Arthur's court: 
She hated all the knights, and heard in thought 
Their lavish comment when her name was named. 
For once when Arthur walking all alone, 
Vext at a rumor rife about the Queen, 
Had met her, Vivien, being greeted f;iir. 
Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy mood 
With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken voice, 
And flutter'd adoration, and at last 
With dark sweet hints of some who prized him more 
Than who should prize him most; at which the King 
Had gazed upon her blankly and gone b^- : 
But one had watch'd, and had not held his peace: 
It made the laughter of an afternoon 
That Vivien should attempt the blameless King. 
And after that, she set herself to gain 
Him, the most famous man of all those times. 
Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts, 
Had built the King his havens, ships, and halls, 
Was also Bard, and knew the starry heavens; 
The people called him Wizard; whom at first 
She play'd about with slight and sprightly talk 
And vivid smiles, and faintly-venom'd points 
Of slander, glancing here and grazing there; 
And j'ielding to his kindlier moods, the Seer 
Would watch her at her petulance, and play, 
Ev'n when they seem'd unlovable, and laugh 
As those that watch a kitten ; thus he grew 
Tolerant of what he half disdaiuM, and she. 
Perceiving that she was but half disdain'd. 
Began to break her sports with graver fits, 



628 V IV I EX. 

Turn red or pale, would often when thej' met 

Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him 

With such a fixt devotion, that the old man, 

Tho' doubtful, felt the flattery, and at times 

Would flatter his own wish in age for love, 

And half believe her true: for thus at times 

He waver'd; but that other clung to him, 

Fixt in her will, and so the seasons went. 

Then fell upon him a great melancholy; 

And leaving Arthur's cotnt he gain'd the beach; 

There found a little boat, and slept into it; 

And Vivien foUow'd, but he mark'd her not. 

She took the helm and he the sail; the boat 

Drave with a sudden wind across the deeps, 

And touching Breton sands the}' disembark'd. 

And then she follow'd Merlin all the way, 

Ev'n to the wild woods of Broccliande. 

For Merlin once had told her of a 'harm 

The which if any wrought on any oae 

With woven paces and with waving arms, 

The man so wrought on ever seem'd to lie 

Closed in the four walls of the hollow tower, 

From which was no escape forevermore; 

And 'lone could find that man forevermore. 

Nor could he see but him who wrought the chartn 

Coming and going, and he lay as dead 

And lost to life and use and name and fame. 

And Vivien ever sought to work tb.e charm 

Upon the great Enchanter of the Time, 

As fancying that her glory would be great 

According to his greatness whom she quench'd. 

There lay she all her length and kiss'd his feet, 

As if in deepest reverence and in love. 

A twist of gold was round her hair; a robe 

Of samite without price, that more exprest 

Than hid her, clung about her lissome limbs, 

In color like the satin-shining palm 

On sallows in the windy gleams of jMarch: 

And while she kiss'd them, crying, " Trample me, 

Dear feet, that 1 have follow'd thro' the world. 

And I will pay you worship; tread me down 

And I will kiss you for it;" he was mute: 

So dark a forethought roU'd about his brain, 

As on a dull day in an Ocean cave 

The blind wave feeling round his long seahall 



VIVIEN. »'p29 



In silence: wherefore, when she liftetl up 

A face of sad appeal, and spake and said, 

"O Merlin, do you love me?" and again, 

"O Merlin, do 30U love me?" and once more, 

"Great Master, do you love me?" he was mute. 

And lissome Vivien, holding bv his heel. 

Writhed toward him, slided up his knee and sat, 

Behind his ankle twined her hollow feet 

Together, curved an arm about his neck. 

Clung like a snake; and letting her left hand 

Droop from his mighty shoulder as a leaf. 

Made with her right a comb of pearl to part 

The lists of such a beard as youth gone out 

Had left in ashes: then he spoke and said, 

Not looking at her, " Who are wise in love 

Love most, say least," and Vivien answer'd quick, 

" I saw the little elf-god eyeless once 

In Arthur's arras hall at Camelot: 

But neither eyes nor tongue, — O stupid child! 

Yet you are wise who say it; let me think 

Silence is wisdom : I am silent then 

And ask no kiss;" then adding all at once, 

" And lo, I clothe myself with wisdom, " drew 

The vast and shaggy mantle of his beard 

Across her neck and bosom to her knee, 

And call'd herself a gilded summer fly 

Caught in a great old tyrant spider's web, 

Who meant to eat her up in that wild wootl 

V/ithout one word. So Vivien call'd herself, 

But rather seem'd a lovely baleful star 

Veil'd in gray vapor; till he sadly smiled: 

" To what request for what strange boon," he said, 

"Are these your pretty tricks and fooleries, 

Vivien, the preamble? yet my thanks, 
For tlT'se have broken up my melancholy." 

And Vivien answer'd smiling saucily, 
" What, O my master, have you found your voice? 

1 bid the stranger welcome. Thanks at last ! 
But yesterday you never open'd lip, 
Except indeed to drink: no cup had we: 

In mine own ladv palms I cull'd the spring 
That gather'd trickling dropwise from the cleft, 
And made a pretty cup of both my hands 



630 



K/ VI EN. 



And ofler'd you it kneeling: then _vou dranl-c 
And knew no more, nor gave me one poor word; 
O no more tlianks than might a goat have given 
With no more sign of reverence than a beard. 
And when lie halted at that other well, 
And I was faint to swooning, and you lay 
Foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of those 
Deep meadows we had traversed, did you know 
That Vivien bathed your feet before her own ? 
And yet no thanks: ant! all thro' this wild wood 
And all this morning when I fondled you: 

Boon, yes, there was a boon, one not so strange 

How had I wrong'd you? surely you are wise, 
But such a silence is more wise than kind." 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers and said: 
" O did you never lie upon the shore. 
And watch the curl'd white of the coming wave 
Glass'd in the slippery sand before it breaks? 
Ev'n such a wave, but not so pleasurable. 
Dark in the glass of some presageful mood, 
Had I for three days seen, ready to fall. 
And then I rose and fled from Arthur's court 
To break the mood. You follow'd meunask'd; 
And when I look'd, and saw you following still, 
My mind involved 3'ourself the nearest thing 
In that mind-mist: for shall I tell you truth? 
You seem'd that wave about to break upon me 
And sweep me from my hold upon the world, 
My use and name and fame. Your pardon, child. 
Your pretty sports have brighten'd all again. 
And ask your boon, for boon I owe you thrice, 
Once for wrong done you by confusion, next 
For thanks it seems till now neglected, last 
For these your dainty gambols: where-'ore ask: 
And take this boon so strange and not so strange." 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling mournfullv: 
" O not so strange as my long asking it. 
Nor yet so strange as you yourself are strange, 
Nor half so strange as that dark mood of vours. 
I ever fear'd you were not wholly mine; 
And see, yourself have own'd you did me wrong. 
The people call you prophet: let it be: 



VIVIEN. 63} 



But not of those that can expound themselves. 

Take Vivien for expounder; she will call 

That three-days-long presageful gloom of \ours 

No presage, but the same mistrustful mood 

That makes you seem less noble than yourself. 

Whenever I have ask'd this very boon, 

Now ask'd again: for see you not, dear love. 

That such a mood as that, which lately gloom'd 

Your fancy when you saw me following \ou. 

Must make me fear still more you are not mine, 

Must make me yearn still more to prove you mine. 

And make me wish still more to learn this cliarm 

(3f woven paces and of waving hands, 

As proof of trust. O Merlin, teach it me. 

The charm so taught will charm us both to rest. 

For, grant me some slight power upon your fate, 

I, feeling that you fe\': me worthy trust. 

Should rest and let you rest, knowing you mine, 

And therefore be as great as you are named, 

Not muffled round with selfish reticence. 

How hard you look and how denyingly ! 

O, if you think this wickedness in me, 

That I should prove it on you unawares. 

To make you lose your use and name and fame, 

That makes me most indignant; then our bond 

Had best be loosed forever: but think or not. 

By Heaven that hears I tell you the clean truth, 

As clean as blood of babes, as white as milk: 

O Merlin, may this earth, if ever I, 

If these unwitty wandering wits of mine, 

Ev'n in the jumbled rubbish of a dream. 

Have tript on such conjectural treachery — 

May this hard earth cleave to the Nadir hqll 

Down, down, and close again, and nip me flat. 

If I be such a traitress. Yield my boon. 

Till which I scarce can yield you all I am; 

And grant my re-reiterated wish. 

The great proof of your love: because I think, 

However wise, you hardly know me yet." 

And Merlin loosed his hand from her and said: 
" I never was less wise, however wise. 
Too curious Vivien, tho' you talk of trust. 
Than when I told you first of such a charm. 



63a VIVIEN. 

Yea, if you talk of trust I tell you this, 
Too much I trusted, when I told you that, 
And stiir'd this vice in you which ruin'd man 
Thro' woman the first hour; for howsoe'er 
In children a great curiousness be well. 
Who have to learn themselves and all the world. 
In you, that are no child, for still I find 
Your face is practised, when I spell the lines, 
I call it, — well, I will not call it vice: 
But since you name yourself the summer fly, 
I well could wish a cobweb for the gnat. 
That settles, beaten back, and beaten back 
Settles, till one could yield for weariness: 
But since I will not yield to give you power 
Upon mv life and use and name and fame. 
Why will you never ask some other boon ? 
' Yea, by God's rood, I trusted you too much." 

And Vivien, like the tenderest-hearted maid 
That ever bided tryst at village stile, 
Made answer, either eyelid wet with tears. 
"Nay, master, be not wrathful with your maid; 
Caress her: let her feel herself forgiven 
Who feels no heart to ask another boon. 
I think you hardly know the tender rhyme 
Of 'trust me not at all or all in all.' 
I heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it once, 
And it shall answer for me. Listen to it. 

'In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours. 
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers: 
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. 

' It is the little rift within the lute, 
That by and by will make the music mute. 
And ever widening slowly silence all. 

' The little rift within the lover's lute, 
Or little pitted speck in garner'd fruit. 
That rotting inward slowly moulders all. 

It is not worth the keeping : let it go: 
But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no. 
And trust me not at all or all in all.' 



VIVIEN. 
'O master, do you love my tender rhyme?" 

And Merlin look'd and half believed her true, 
So tender was her voice, so fair her foce, 
So sweetly gleam'd her eyes behind her' tears 
Lil^e sunlight on the plain behind a shower: 
And yet he answer'd half indignantly : 

" Far other was the song that once I heard 
By this huge oak, sung nearly where we sit: 
For here we met, some ten or twelve of us. 
To chase a creature that was current then 
In these wild woods, the hart with golden horns. 
It was the time when first the question rose 
About the founding of a Table Round, 
That was to he, for love of God and men 
And noble deeds, the flower of all the world. 
And each incited each to noble deeds. 
A-nd while we waited, one, the youngest of us, 
We could not keep him silent, out he flash'd, 
And into such a song, such fire for fame, 
Such trumpet-blowings in it, coming down 
To such a stern and iron-clashing close, 
That when he stopt we long'd to hurl together, 
And should have done it; but the beauteous beLt 
Scared by the noise upstarted at our feet. 
And like a silver shadow slipt away 
Thro' the dim land; and all day long we rode 
Thro' the dim land against a rushing wind, 
That glorious roundel echoing in our ears. 
And chased the flashes of his golden horni 
Until they vanish'd by the fairy well 
That laughs at iron— as our warriors did— 
Where children cast their pins and nails, and cry, 
"Laugh little well," but touch it with a sword, 
It buzzes wildly round the point; and there 
We lost iiim: such a noble song was that. 
But, Vivien, when you sang me that sweet rhyme, 
I felt as tho' you knew this cursed charm. 
Were proving it on me, and that I lay 
And felt them slowly ebbing, name and fame." 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling mournfully; 
"O mine have ebb'd away forevermore, 



633 



634 VIVIEN. 



And all thro' following you to this wild wood, 

Because I saw you sad, to comfort you. 

Lo now, what hearts have men ! they never mount 

As high as woman in her selfless mood. 

And touching fame, howe'er you scorn my song 

Take one verse more — the lady speaks it — this: 

' My name, once mine, now thine, is closelier mine, 
Yor fame, could fame be mine, that fame were thine, 
And shame, could shame be thine, that shame were mine. 
So trust me not at all or all in all.' 

" Saj's she not well? and there is more — this rhyme 
Is like the fair pearl necklace of the Queen, 
That burst in dancing, and the pearls were spilt; 
Some lost, some stolen, some as relics kept. 
But nevermore the same two sister pearls 
Ran down the silken thread to kiss each other 
On her white neck — -so it is with this rhyme; 
It lives dispersedlv in many hands. 
And every minstrel sings it differently; 
Yet there is one true line, the pearl of pearls; 
' Man dreams of Fame while woman wakes to love.' 
True: Love, tho' Love were of the grossest, carves 
A portion from the solid present, eats 
And uses, careless of the rest; but Fame, 
The Fame that follows death is nothing to us; 
And what is Fame in life but half-disfome. 
And counterchanged with darkness? you yourself 
Know well that Envy calls you Devil's son, 
And since 3'ou seem the Master of all Art, 
They fain would make you Master of all Vice." 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers and said, 
" I once was looking for a magic weed. 
And found a fair young squire who sat alone, 
Had cawed himself a knightly shield of wood, 
And then was painting on it fancied arms, 
Azure, an Eagle rising, or, the Sun 
In dexter chief; the scroll ' I follow fame.' 
And speaking not, but leaning over him, 
I took his brush and blotted out the bird, 
And made a Gardener putting in a graff, 
With this for motto, ' Rather use than fame.' 



VIVIEN. 



63S 



You should have seen him blush; but afcerwards 

He made a stalwart knight. O Vivien, 

For you, methinks you think you love me well; 

For me, T love you somewhat: rest: and Love 

Should have some rest and pleasure in liimself, 

Not ever be too curious for a boon. 

Too prurient for a proof against the grain 

Of him you say you love: but Fame with men, 

Being but ampler means to serve mankind. 

Should have small rest or pleasure in herself, 

But work as vassal to the larger love 

That dwarfs the petty love of one to one. 

Use gave me Fame at first, and Fame again 

Increasing gave me use. Lo, there my boon! 

What other? for men sought to prove me vile. 

Because I wish'd to give them greater minds; 

And then did Envy call me Devil's son; 

The sick weak beast seeking to help herself 

By striking at her better, miss'd, and brought 

Her own claw back, and wounded her own heart. 

Sweet were the days when I was all unknown, 

But when my name was lifted up, the storm 

Broke on the mountain and I cared not for it. 

Right well know I that Fame is half disfame, 

Yet needs must work my work. That other fame, 

To one at least, who hath not children, vague, 

The cackle of the unborn about the grave, 

I cared not for it; a single misty star. 

Which is the second in a line of stars 

That seem a sword beneath a belt of three, 

I never gazed upon it but I dreamt 

Of some vast charm concluded in that star 

To make fame nothing. Wherefore, if I fear. 

Giving you power upon me thvo' this charm. 

That you might play me falsely, having power, 

However well you think you love me now 

(As sons of kings loving in pupilage 

Have turn'd to tyrants when they came to power) 

I rather dread the loss of use than fame; 

If you — and not so much from wickedness. 

As some wild turn of anger, or a mood 

Of overstrain'd affection, it may be. 

To keep me all to your own self, or else 

A sudden spurt of woman's jealousy, 

Should try this charm on whom you say you love." 



636 



K/ VI EN. 



And Vivien ansvver'd, smiling as in vvratli: 
"Have I not sworn? I am ]iot trusted. Goodl 
Well, hide it, hide it; I shall find it out; 
And being found take heed of Vi\ien. 
A woman and not trusted, doubtless I 
Might feel some sudden turn of anger born 
Of your misfaith; and your fine epithet 
Is accurate too, for this full love of mine 
Without the full heart, back may merit well 
Your term of overstrain'd. So used as I, 
My daily wonder is, I loved at all. 
And as to woman's jealousy, O why not.^ 

to what end, except a jealous one. 
And one to make me jealous if I love, 
Was this fair charm invented by yourself ? 

1 well believe that all about this world 
You cage a buxom captive here and there, 
Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower 
From which is no escape forevermore." 

Then the great Master merrily answer'd her; 
"Full many a" love in loving youth was mine, 
I needed then no charm to keep them mine 
But youth f.nd love; and that full heart of yours 
Whereof you prattle, may now assure you mine; 
So live uncharm'd. For those who wrought it first, 
The wrist is parted from the hand that waved, 
The feet unmortised from their ankle-bones 
Who paced it, ages back: but will you hear 
The legend as in guerdon for your rhyme? 

" There lived a king in the most Eastern East, 
Less old than I, yet older,' for my blood 
Hath earnest in it of far springs to be. 
A tawny pirate anchor'd in his port. 
Whose bark had plunder'd twenty nameless isles; 
And passing one, at the high peep of dawn. 
He saw two cities in a thousand boats 
All fighting for a woman on the sea, 
And pushing his black craft among them all, 
He lightly scatter'd theirs and brought her off. 
With loss of half his people arrow-slain; 
A maid so smooth, so white, so wonderful, 
They said a light came from her when she moved: 




(637) 



638 VIVIEN. 



And since the pirate would not yield her up, 

The King impaled hiin for his piracy; 

Then made her Queen: hut those isle-nurtur'd eyes 

Waged such unwilling tho' successful war 

On all the youth, they sicken'd; councils tliinn'd, 

And armies waned, for magnet-like she drew 

The rustiest iron of old fighters' hearts; 

And heasts themselves would worship; camels knelt 

Unbidden, and the brutes of mountain back 

That carry kings in castles, bow'd black knees 

Of homage, ringing with their serpent hands, 

To make her smile, her golden ankle-bells. 

What wonder being jealous, -that he sent 

His horns of proclamation out thro' all 

The hundred under-kingdoms that he sway'd 

To find a wizard who might teach the King 

Some charm, which being wrought upon the Queen 

Might keep her all his own: to such a one 

He promised more than ever king had given, 

A league of mountain full of golden mines, 

A province with a hundred miles of coast, 

A palace and a princess, all for him : 

But on all those who tried and fail'd, the King 

Pronounced a dismal sentence, meaning by it 

To keep the list low and pretenders back. 

Or like a king, not to be trifled with — 

Their heads should moulder on the city gates. 

And many tried and fail'd, because the charm 

Of nature in her overbore their own: 

And many a wizard brow bleach'd on the walls: 

And many weeks a troop of carrion crows 

Hung like a cloud above the gateway towers." 

And Vivien, breaking in upon him, said: 
« 1 sit and gather honey; yet, methinks, 
Your tongue has tript a little: ask yourself. 
The lady never made umvilUng war 
Witli those fine eyes: she had pleasure in it, 
And made her good man jealous with good cause= 
And lived there neither dame nor damsel then 
Wroth at a lover's loss? were all as tame, 
I mean, as noble, as then* Queen was fair? 
Not one to flirt a venom at her eyes. 
Or pinch a murderous dust into her drink. 



VIVIEN. 



639 



Or make her paler with a poison'd rose? 

Well, those were not our days; but did they find 

A wizard? Tell me, was he like to thee?" 




She ceased, and made her lithe arm around his neck 
Tighten, and then drew back, and let her eyes 
Speak for her, glo^ving on him, like a bride's 
On her new lord, her own, the first of men. 



He answer'd laughing, " Nay, not like to me. 
At last they found — his foragers for charms — 
A little glassy-headed hairless man. 
Who lived alone in a great wild on grass; 
Read but one book, and ever reading grew 
So grated down and filed away with thought. 
So lean his eyes were monstrous; while the skin 
Clung but to crate and basket, ribs and spine. 



640 VIVIEX. 



And since he kept his mind on one sole aim, 

Nor ever touch'd fierce wine, nor tasted flesh, 

Nor own'd a sensual wish, to him the wall 

That sunders ghosts and shadow-casting men 

Became a crystal, and he saw them thro' it. 

And heard their voices talk behind the wall, 

And learnt their elemental secrets, powers 

And forces; often o'er the sun's bright eye 

Drew the vast eyelid of an ink}- cloud. 

And lash'd it at the base with slanting storm; 

Or in the noon of mist and driving rain. 

When the lake whiten'd and the pine-wood roar'd, 

And the cairn'd mountain was a shadow, sunn'd 

The world to peace again: here was the man. 

And so by force they dragg'd him to the King. 

And then he taught the King to charm the Queen 

In such wise, that no man could see her more, 

Nor saw she save the King, who wrought the charm, 

Coming and going, and she lay as dead, 

And lost all use of life: but when the King 

Made proffer of the league of golden mines, 

The province with the hundred miles of coast. 

The palace and the princess, that old man 

Went back to his old wild, and lived on grass, 

And vanish'd, and his book came down to me." 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling saucily: 
"You have the book: the charm is written in it: 
Good: take my counsel: let me know it at once: 
For keep it like a puzzle chest in chest, 
With each chest lock'd and padlock'd thirty-fold, 
And whelm all this beneath as vast a mound 
As after furious battle turfs the slain 
On some wild down above the windy deep, 
I yet should strike upon a sudden means 
To dig, pick, open, find and read the charm : 
Then, if I tried it, who should blame me then? " 

And smiling as a Master smiles at one 
That is not of his school, nor any school 
But that where blind and naked Ignorance 
Delivers brawling judgments, unashamed, 
On all things all day long, he answered her: 



VIVIEN. 641 



" Ton read the book, my pretty Vivien! 
O ay, it is but twenty pages long, 
But every page having an ample marge, 
And every marge enclosing in the midst 
A square of text that looks a little blot. 
The text no larger than the limbs of fleas; 
And every square of text an awful charm. 
Writ in a language that has long gone by. 
So long, that mountains have arisen since 
With cities on their flanks--yo« read the book! 
And every margin scribbled, crost and cramm'd 
With comment, densest condensation, hard 
To mind and eye; but the long sleepless nights 
Of my long life have made it easy to me. 
And none can read the text, not even I ; 
And none can read the comment but myself; 
And in the comment did I find the charm. 
O, the results are simple; a mere child 
Might use it to the harm of any one. 
And never could undo it: ask no more: 
For tho' you should not prove it upon me, 
But keep that oath you swore, you might, perchance, 
Assay it on some one of the Table Round, 
And all because you dream they babble of you." 

And Vivien, frowning in true anger, said: 
" What dare the full-fed liars say of me? 
They ride abroad redressing human wrongs! 
They sit with knife in meat and wine in horn. 
They bound to holy vows of chastitv! 
Were I not woman, I could tell a tale. 
But you are man, you well can understand 
The shame that cannot be explain'd for shame. 
Not one of all the drove should touch me: swine!" 

Then answer'd Merlin careless of her words, 
" You breathe but accusation vast and vague, 
Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. If you know, 
Set up the charge you know, to stand or fall!" 

And Vivien answer'd, frowning wrathfully: 
" O ay, what say ye to Sir Valence, him 
Whose kinsman left him watcher o'er his wife 
And two fair babes, and went to distant lands; 



41 



642 VJ VI EN. 



Was one year gone, and on returning found 

Not two but three: there lay the reckUng, one 

But one hour old! What said the happy sire? 

A seven months' babe had been a truer gift. 

Those twelve sweet moons confused his fatherhood!" 

Then answer'd Merlin: "Nay, I know the tale. 
Sir Valence wedded with an outland dame: 
Some cause had kept him sunder'd from his wife: 
One child they had: it lived with her:' she died: 
His kinsman travelling on his own affiiir 
Was charged by Valence to bring home the child. 
He brought, not found it therefore: take the truth." 

" O ay," said Vivien, " overtrue a tale. 
What say ye then to sweet Sir Sagramore, 
That ardent man? 'to pluck the flower in season;' 
So says the song, ' I trow it is no treason.' 

Master, shall we call him overquick 

To crop his own sweet rose before the hour.^ " 

And Merlin answer'd: "Overquick are you 
To catch a lofty plume fall'n from the wing 
Of that foul bird of rapine whose whole prey 
Is man's good name: he never wronged his bride, 

1 know the tale. An angry gust of wind 
Puff 'd out his torch among the myriad-room'd 
And inany-corridor'd complexities 

Of Arthur's palace: then he found a door 
And darkling I'elt the sculptured ornameut 
That wreathen found it made it seem his own; 
And wearied out made for the couch and slept, 
A stainless man beside a stainless maid; 
And either slept, nor knew of other there; 
Till the high dawn piercing the royal rose 
In Arthur's casement glimmer'd chastely down, 
Blushing upon them blushing, and at once 
He rose without a word and parted from her: 
But when the thing was blazed about the court, 
The brute world iiowling forced them into bonds, 
And as it chanced they are happy, being pure." 

"O ay," said Vivien, "that were likely too. 
What saj' ye then to fair Sir Percivale 



rv VI EN. 



And of the horrid fouhiess that he vvroug'ht, 
The saintly youth, the spotless lamb of Christ, 
Or some black wether of St. Satan's fold. 
What, in the precincts of the chapel yard. 
Among the knightly brasses of the graves. 
And by the cold Hie Jacets of the dead!" 

And Merlin answer'd, careless of her charge: 
" A sober man is Percivale and pure; 
But once in life was fluster'd with new wine; 
Then paced for coolness in the chapel-yard, 
Where one of Satan's shepherdesses caught 
And meant to stamp him with her master's mark; 
And that he sinn'd, is not believable; 
For, look upon his face! — but if he sinn'd. 
The sin that practice burns into the blood, 
And not the one dark hour which brings remorse, 
Will brand us, after, of whose fold we be: 
Or else were he, the holy king, whose hymns 
Are chanted in the minster, worse than all. 
But is your spleen froth'd out, or have ye more.' " 

And Vivien answer'd frowning yet in wrath: 
" O ay; what say ye to Sir Lancelot, friend.' 
Traitor or true? that commerce with the Queen, 
I ask you, is it clamor'd by the child, 
Ov whisper'J in the corner.' do you know it? " 

'/& ivl.ich he answer'd sadly: "Yea, I know it. 
Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at first, 
To fetch her, and she took him for the King; 
So fixt her fancy on him: let him be. 
But have you no one word of loval praise 
For Arthur, blameless King and stainless man? " 

She answer'd with a low and chuckling laugh: 
" Him ? is he a man at all, who knows and winks? 
Sees what his fair bride is and does, and winks? 
By which the good king means to blintl himself, 
And blinds himself and all the Table Round 
To all the foulness that they work. Myself 
Could call him (were it not for womanhood) 
The pretty, popular name such manhood earns, 



644 



VIVIEN. 



Could call him the main cause of all their crime; 
Yea, were he not crown'd king, coward, and fool," 

Then Merlin to his own heart, loathing, said: 
" O true and tender! O my liege and king! 

selfless man and stainless gentleman. 

Who wouldst against thine own eye-witness fain 

Have all men true and leal, all women pure: 

How, in the mouths of base interpreters. 

From over-fineness not intelligible 

To things with every sense as false and foul 

As the poached filth that floods the middle street, 

Is thy white blamelessness accounted blame!" 

But Vivien deeming Merlin overborne 
By instance, recommenced, and let her tongue 
Rage like a fire among the noblest names. 
Polluting, and imputing her whole self. 
Defaming and defacing, till she left 
Not even Lancelot brave, nor Galahad clean. 

Her words had issue other than she will'd. 
He dragg'd his eyebrow bushes down, and made 
A snowy penthouse for his hollow eyes. 
And mutter'd in himself, " Tell her the charm! 
So, if she had it, would she rail on me 
To snare the next, and if she have it not. 
So will she rail. What did the wanton say? 
' Not mount as high;' we scarce can sink as low: 
For men at most differ as Heaven and earth, 
But women, worst and best, as Heaven and Hell. 

1 know the Table Round, my friends of old; 
All brave, and man}' generous, and some chaste. 
I think she cloaks the wounds of loss with lies; 
I do believe she tempted them and fail'd. 

She is so bitter: for fine plots may fail, 
Tho' harlots paint tiieir talk as well as face 
With colors of the heart that are not theirs. 
I will not let her know: nine tithes of times 
Face-flatterers and backbiters are the same. 
And they, sweet soul, that most impute a crime 
Are pronest to it, and impute themselves. 
Wanting the mental rage; or low desire 
Not to feel lowest makes them level all: 



VIVIEN. 645 



Yea, they would pare the mountain to the pLain, 
To leave an equal haseness; and in this 
Are harlots like the crowd, that if they find 
Some stain or blemish in a name of note, 
Not grieving that their greatest are so small, 
Inflate themselves \vitli some insane delight, 
And judge all nature from her feet of clay. 
Without the will to lift their eyes, and see 
Her godlike head crovvn'd with spiritual fire, 
And touching other worlds. 1 am weary of her," 

He spoke in words part heard, in whispers part, 
Half-sufFocated in the hoary fell 
And many-winter'd fleece of throat and chin. 
But Vivien, gathering somewhat of his mood. 
And hearing " harlot" mutter'd twice or thrice. 
Leapt from her session on his lap, and stood 
Stiif as a viper frozen: loathsome sight. 
How from the rosy lips of life and love, 
Flash'd the bare-grinning skeleton of death! 
White was her cheek; sharp breaths of anger puflPd 
Her fairy nostril out; her hand half-clench'd 
Went faltering sideways downward to her belt. 
And feeling; had she found a dagger there 
(For in a wink the false love turns to hate) 
She would have stabb'd him; but she found it not: 
His eye was calm, and suddenly she took 
To bitter weeping like a beaten child, 
A long, long weeping, not consolahle. 
Then her false voice made way broken with sobs. 

" O crueller than was ever told in tale. 
Or sung in song! O vainly lavish'd love! 
O cruel, there was nothing wild or strange. 
Or seeming shameful, for what shame in love. 
So love be true, and not as yours is — nothing 
Poor Vivien had not done to win his trust 
Who call'd her what he call'd her — all her crime, 
All — all — the wish to prove him wholly hers." 

She mused a little, and then clapt her hands 
Together with a wailing shriek, and said: 
"Stabb'd through the heart's affections to the heart! 
SeeLli'd ILke the kid in its own mother's milk! 



646 viv/EN. 



Kill'd with a word worse than a life of blows! 
I thought that he was gentle, being great: 

God, that I had loved a smaller man! 

1 should have found in him a greater heart. 
O, I, that flattering my true passion, saw 

The knights, the court, the king, dark in your light. 

Who loved to make men darker than they are. 

Because of that high pleasure which I had 

To seat you sole upon my pedestal 

Of worship — I am answer'd, and henceforth 

The course of life that seem'd so flowery to me 

With you for guide and master, only you. 

Becomes the sea-clifF pathway broken short, 

And ending in a ruin — nothing left. 

But into some low cave to crawl, and there, 

If the wolf spare me, weep my life away, 

Kill'd with unutterable unkindliness." 

She paused, she turn'd away, she hung her headj 
The snake of gold slid from her hair, the braid 
Slipt and inicoil'd itself, she wept afresli. 
And the dark wood grew darker toward the storni 
In silence, while his anger slowly died 
Within him, till he let his wisdom go 
For ease of heart, and half believed her true: 
Call'd her to shelter in the hollow oak, 
« Come from the storm," and having no reph', 
Gazed at the heaving shoulder, and the face 
Hand-hidden, as for utmost grief or shame; 
Then thrice essay' d, by tenderest-touching terms 
To sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in vain. 
At last she let herself be conquer'd by him, 
And as the cageling newly flown returns, 
The seeming-injured simple-hearted thing 
Came to her old perch back, and settled there. 
There while she sat, half-falling from his knees, 
Half-nestled at his heart, and since he saw 
The slow tear creep from her clos'd eyelid yet, 
About her, more in kindness than in love, 
The gentle wizard cast a shielding arm. 
But she dislink'd herself at once and rose. 
Her arms upon her breast across, and stood 
A virtuous gentlewoman deeply wrong'd, 
Upright and flush'd before him ; then she said : 



VIVIEN. 647 



" There must be now no passages of love 
Betwixt us twain lienceforward evermore. 
Since, if I be what I am grossly call'd, 
What should be granted which your own gross heart 
Would reckon worth the taking? I will go. 
In trutli, but one thing now — better have died 
Thrice than have ask'd it once — could make me stay — 
That proof of trust — so often asked in vain! 
How justly, after that vile term of yours, 
I find with grief! I might believe vou then. 
Who knows? once more. O, what was once to me 
Mere matter of the fancy, now has grown 
The vast necessity of heart and life. 
Farewell: think kindly of me, for I fear 
My fate or fault, omitting gayer youth 
For one so old, must be to love you still. 
But ere I leave you let me swear once more 
That if I schemed against your peace in this. 
May yon just heaven, that darkens o'er me, send 
One flash, that, missing all things else, may make 
My scheming brain a cinder, if I lie." 

Scarce had she ceased, when out of heaven a bolt 
(For now the storm was close above them) struck. 
Furrowing a giant oak, and javelining 
With darted spikes and splinters of the wood 
The dark earth lound. He raised his eyes and saw 
The tree that shone white-listed thro' tiie gloom. 
But Vivien, fearing heaven had heard her oath. 
And dazzled b_v the livid-flickering fork. 
And deafen'd with the stammering cracks and clajK 
That foUow'd, flying back and crying out, 
" O Merlin, tho' you do not love me, save. 
Yet save me!" clung to him and liugg'd him close: 
And call'd him dear protector in her fright. 
Nor yet forgot her practice in her fright, 
But wrought upon his mood and hugg'd him close. 
The pale blood of the wizard at her touch 
Took gayer colors, like an opal warm'd 
She blamed herself for telling hearsay tales: 
She shook from fear, and for her fault she wept 
Of petulancy; she call'd him lord and liege. 
Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve, 
Her God, her Merlin, the one passionate love 



648 



VIVIEN. 



Of her whole life; and ever overhead 

Bellow'd the tempest, and the rotten branch 

Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain 

Above them; and in change of glare and gloom 

Her eyes and neck glittering went and came; 

Till now the storm, its burst of passion spent, 

Moaning and calling out of other lands. 

Had left the ravaged woodland yet once more 

To peace; and what should not have been had been. 

For Merlin, overtalk'd and ovferworn. 

Had yielded, told her all the charm, and slept. 

Then, in one moment, she put forth the charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands. 
And in the hollow oak he lay as dead. 
And lost to life and use and name and fame. 

Then crying " I have made his glory mine," 
And shrieking out "O fool!" the harlot leapt 
Adown the forest, and the thicket closed 
Behind her, and the forest echo'd " fool." 










BLAINE. 



619 







L 



^~^. 



■■-i>»^- 



"^*-^=*s^^i)iA«5<^-^ 













i;:-^ LAINE the fair, Elaine the loval.e, 
■Xi'.-., Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, . 

J "j'.'lligh in her chamber up a tower to the east S\ 
i^ Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot; i 

Which first she placed where morning's earliest ray 



i^ 



Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam ; 

Then fearing rust or soilure, fashion'd for it 
A case of silk, and braided thereupon 
All the devices blazon'd on the shield 
In their own tinct, and added, of her wit, 
A border fantasy of branch and flower. 
And j'ellow-throated nestling in the nest. 
Nor rested thus content, but day by day 
Leaving her household and good father climb'd 
That eastern tower, and entering barr'd her door, 
Stript off the case, and read the naked shield. 
Now guess'd a hidden meaning in his arms. 
Now made a pretty history to herself 
Of every dint a sword had beaten in it. 
And every scratch a lance had made upon it. 
Conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh; 
That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle; 
That at Caerleon; this at Camelot: 
And ah, God's mercy, what a stroke was there! 
And here a thrust that might have kill'd, but God 
Broke the strong lance, and roU'd his enemy down, 
And saved him: so she lived in fantasy. 



How came the lily maid by that good shield 
Of Lancelot, she that knew not ev'n his name? 
He left it with her, when he rode to tilt 
For the great diamond in the diamond jousts. 
Which Arthur had ordain'd, and by that name 
Had named them, since a diamond was the prize, 



For Arthur when none knew from whence he came. 
Long ere the people chose him for their king. 



650 ELAINE. 



Roving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse, 

Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn. 

A horror lived about the tarn, and clave 

Like its own mists to all the monntain side: 

For here two brothers, one a king, had met 

And fought together: but their names were lost. 

And each had slain his brother at a blow. 

And down they fell and made the glen abhorr'd : 

And there they lay till all their bones were bleach'd, 

And lichen'd into color with the crags: 

And he that once was king had on a crown 

Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside. 

And Arthur came, and laboring up the pass 

All in a misty moonshine, unawares 

Had trodden that crown'd skeleton, and the skull 

Brake from the nape, and from the skull the crown 

RoU'd into light, and turning on its rims 

Fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn: 

And down the shingly scaur he plunged, and caught, 

And set it on his head, and in his heart 

Heard murmurs, " Lo, thou likewise shalt be king." 

Thereafter, when a king, he had the gems 
Pluck'd from the crown, and show'd them to his knights, 
Saying "These jewels, whereupon I chanced 
Divinely, are the kingdom's, not the king's — 
For public use: henceforward let there be, 
Once every year, a joust for one of these: 
For so by nine years' proof we needs must learn 
Which is our mightiest, and ourselves shall grow 
In use of arms and manhood, till we drive 
The Heathen, who, some say, shall rule th6 land 
Hereafter, which God hinder." Thus he spoke: 
And eight years past, eight jousts had been, and still 
Had Lancelot won the diamond of the year. 
With purpose to present them to the Queen, 
When all were won: but meaning all at once 
To snare her royal fancy with a boon 
Worth half her realm, had never spoken word. 

Now for the cential diamond and the last 
And largest, Arthur, holding then his court 
Hard on the river nigh the place which now 
Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a joust 



ELAINE. 651 



At Cainelot, and when the time drew nigh 

Spake (for she had been sick) to Guinevere, 

"Are you so sick, my Queen, you cannot move 

To these fair jousts? " " Yea, lord," she said, " you know it." 

" Then will you miss," lie answer'd, " the great deeds 

Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the lists, 

A sight you love to look on." And the Queen 

Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt languidly 

On Lancelot, where he stood beside the King. 

He thinking that he read her meaning there, 

" Stay with me, I am sick; my love is more 

Than many diamonds," yielded, and a heart. 

Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen 

(However much he yearn'd to make complete 

The tale of diamonds for his destined boon) 

Urged him to speak against the truth, and s:iy 

"Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardiv whole, 

And lets me from the saddle;" and the King 

Glanced first at him, then her, and went his way. 

No sooner gone than suddenly she began: 

" To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot much to blame. 
Why go you not to these fair jousts? the knights 
Are half of them our enemies, and the crowd 
Will murmur, lo the shameless ones, who take 
Their pastime now the trustful king is gone! " 
Then Lancelot, vexed at having lied in vain: 
"Are you so wise? you were not once so wise, 
My Queen, that summer, when you loved me fiist. 
Then of the crowd you took no more account 
Than of the myriad cricket of the mead, 
When its own voice clings to each blade of grass, 
And every voice is nothing. As to knights. 
Them surely can I silence with all ease. 
But now my loyal worship is allow'd 
Of all men: many a bard, without offence, 
Has link'd our names together in his lay, 
Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guinevere, 
The pearl of beauty: and our knights at feast 
Have pledged us in this union, while the King- 
Would listen smiling. How then? is there more? 
Has Arthur spoken aught? or would yourself, 
Now weary of my service and devoir. 
Henceforth be truer to youi- faultless lord ? " 



652 ELAINE. 



She broke into a little scornful laugh. 
"Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the faultless King, 
That passionate perfection, my good lord — 
But who can gaze upon the Sun in heaven? 
He never spake word of reproach to me. 
He never had a glimpse of mine untruth, 
He cares not for me: only here to-day 
There gleam'd a vague suspicion in his eyes ; 
Some meddling rogue has tampered with him — else 
Rapt in his fancy of his Table Round, 
And swearing men to vows impossible, 
To make them like himself; but, friend, to me 
He is all fault who hath no fault at all: 
For who loves me must have a touch of earth; 
The low sun makes the color; I am yours. 
Not Arthur's, as you know, save by the bond. 
And therefore hear my words: go to the jousts: 
The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our dream 
When sweetest; and the vermin voices here 
May buzz so loud — we scorn them, but they sting." 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of knights, 
•'And with what face, after m}' pretext made, 
Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I 
Before a king who honors his own word. 
As if it were his God's.'" 

" Yea," said the Queen, 
"A moral child without the craft to rule. 
Else had he not lost me: but listen to me, 
If I must find you wit: we hear it said 
That men go down before your spear at a touch 
But knowing you are Lancelot; your great name, 
This conquers: hide it therefore; go unknown: 
Win! by this kiss you will: and our true king 
'Will then allow your pretext, O my knight. 
As all for glory ; for to speak him true. 
You know right well, how meek so e'er he seein. 
No keener hunter after glory breathes. 
He loves it in his knights more than himself: 
They prove to him his work: win and return." 

Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse. 
Wroth at himself: not willing to be known. 
He left the barren-beaten thoroughfare. 



ELAINE. 653 



Chose the green path that show'd the rarer foot, 

And there among the soHtary downs, 

Full often lost in fancy, lost his way; 

Till as he traced a faintly-shadow'd track, 

That all in loops and links among the dales 

Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw 

Fired from the west, far on a hill, the towers. 

Thither he made and wound the gate-way hox'n, 

Then came an old, dumb, myriad-wrinkled man, 

Who let him into lodging and disarm'd. 

And Lancelot marvell'd at the wordless man; 

And issuing found the Lord of Astolat 

With two strong sons, Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine, 

Moving to meet him in the castle court; 

And close behind them stept the lily maid 

Elaine, his daughter: mother of the house 

There was not: some light jest among them rose 

With laughter dying down as the great knight 

Approach'd them : then the lord of Astolat, 

•'Whence comest thou, ni}' guest, and by what name 

Livest between the lips? for by thy state 

And presence I might guess thee chief of those, 

After the king, who eat in Arthur's halls. 

Him have I seen: the rest, his Table Round, 

Known as they are, to me they are unknown." 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of knights, 
"Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, and known, 
What I by mere mischance have brought, my shield. 
But since I go to joust as one unknown 
At Camelot for the diamond, ask me not; 
Hereafter you shall know me — and the shield — 
I pray you lend me one, if such 3'ou have, 
Blank, or at least with some device not mine." 

Then said the Lord of Astolat, « Here is Torre's: 
Hurt in his first tilt was my son. Sir Torre. 
And, so, God wot, his shield is blank enough. 
His you can have." Then added plain Sir Torre, 
" Yea since I cannot use it, you may have it." 
Here laugh'd the father, saying, " Fie, Sir Churl, 
Is that an answer for a noble knight? 
Allow him : but Lavaine my younger here. 
He is so full of lustihood, he will ride 



654 ELAINE. 



joust for it, and win, anil bring it in an hour 
And set it in this damsel's golden hair 
To make her thrice as wilful as before." 

" Nay, father, nay, good father, shame me not 
Before this noble knight," said young Lavaine, 
" For nothing. Surely I but play'd on Torre: 
He seem'd s» sullen, vext he could not go : 
A jest, no more: for, knight, the maiden dreamt 
That some one put this diamond in her hand. 
And that it was too slippery to be held. 
And slipt and fell into some pool or stream. 
The castle-wcll, belike-: and then I said 
That if I went and if I fought and won it 
(But all was jest and joke among ourselves) 
Then must she keep it safelier. All was jest. 
But father give me leave, an if he will. 
To ride to Camelot with this noble knight: 
Win shall I not, but do my best to win : 
Young as I am, yet would I do my best." 

* So you will grace me," answer'd Lancelot, 
Smiling a moment, " witli your fellowship 
O'er these waste downs whereon I lost mvself, 
Then were I glad of you as guide and friend; 
And you shall win tliis diamond — as I hear. 
It is a fair large diamond, — if you may. 
And yield it to this maiden, if j-ou will." 
" A fair large diamond," added plain Sir Torre, 
" Such be for Queens and not for simple maids." 
Then she, who held her eyes upon the ground, 
Elaine, and heard her name so tost about, 
Flush'd slightly at the slight disparagement 
Before the stranger knight, who, looking at her, 
Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus return'd : 
"If what is fair be but for what is fair, 
And only Queens are to be counted so. 
Rash were my judgment then, who deem this maid 
Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth. 
Not violating the bond of like to like." 

He spoke and ceased: the lily maid Elaine, 
Won by the mellow voice before she look'd. 
Lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments. 



ELAINE. 655 



The great and guilty love he bare the Queen, 

In battle with the love he bare his lord, 

Had marr'd his face, and mark'd it ere his time. 

Another sinning on such heights with one, 

The flower of all the west and all the world, 

Had been the sleeker for it: but in him 

His mood was often like a fiend, and rose 

And drove him into wastes and solitudes 

For agony, who was yet a living soul. 

Marr'il as he was, he seem'd the goodliest man 

That ever among ladies ate in Hall, 

And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes. 

However marr'd, of more than twice her years, 

Seam'd with an ancient swordcut on the cheek. 

And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes 

And loved him, with that love which was her doom. 

Then the great knight, the darling of the court. 
Loved of the loveliest, into that rude hall 
Stept with all grace, and not with half disdain 
Hid under grace, as in a smaller time. 
But kindly man moving among his kind; 
Whom they with meats and vintage of tiicir best 
And talk and minstrel melodv entertain'd. 
And much they ask'd of court and Table Round, 
And ever well and readily answer'd he: 
But Lancelot, when they glanced at Guinevere, 
SuddLMily speaking of the wordless man, 
Heard from the Baron that, ten years Ijefore, 
The heathen caught and reft him of his tongue, 
"He learnt and warn'd me of their fierce design 
Against my house, and him they caught and maim'd: 
But I, my sons, and little daughter fled 
From bonds or death, and dwelt among the woods 
By the great river in a boatman's hut. 
Dull days were those, till our good Arthur broke 
The Pagan yet once more on Badon hill.'' 

" O there, good Lord, doubtless," Lavaine said, rapt 
By all the sweet and sudden passion of youth 
Toward greatness in its elder, " you have fouo-ht. 
O tell us; for we live apart, you know: 
Of Arthur's glorious wars." And Lancelot spoke 
And answer'd him at full, as having been 



656 ELAINE. 



With Arthur in the fight which all day long 

Rang by the white mouth of the violent Glem ; 

And in the four wild battles by the shore 

Of Duglas; that on Bassa; then the war 

That thunder'd in and out the gloomy skirts 

Of Celidon the forest; and again 

By castle Gurnion, where the glorious King 

Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's Head, 

Carved of one emerald, centered in a sun 

Of silver rays, that lighten'd as he breathed; 

And at Caerleon had he help'd his lord, 

When the strong neighings of the wild white Horse 

Set every gilded parapet shudilering; 

And up in Agned Cathregonion too, 

And down the waste sand-shores of Trath Treroit, 

Where many a heathen fell; "and on the mount 

Of Badon I myself beheld the King 

Charge at the head of all his Table Round, 

And all his legions crying Christ and him, 

And break them; and I saw him, afterstand 

High on a heap of slain, from spur to plume 

Red as the rising sun with heathen blood. 

And seeing me, with a great voice he cried, 

' They are broken, they are broken,' for the King, 

However mild he seems at home, nor cares 

For triumph in our mimic wars, the jousts — 

For if his own knight cast him down, he laughs 

Saying, his knights are better men than he — - 

Yet in this heathen war the fire of God 

Fills him; I never saw his like; there lives 

No greater leader." 

While he utter'd this, 
Low to her own heart said the lily maid, 
" Save your great self, fair lord;" and when he fell 
From talk of war to traits of pleasantry 
Being mirthful he but in a stately kind — - 
She still took note that when the living smile 
Died from his lips, across him came a cloud 
Of melancholy severe, from which again, 
Whenever in her hovering to and fro 
The lily maid had striven to make him cheer, 
There brake a sudden-beaming tenderness 
Of manners and of nature: and she thought 
That all was nature, all, perchance, for her, 
And all night long his face before her lived, 



ELAINE. 65'i 



As wlien a painter, poring on a face, 

Divinely thro' all hindrance finds the man 

Behind it, and so paints him that his face, 

The shape and color of a mind and life, 

Lives for his children, ever at its best 

And fullest; so the face before her lived, 

Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, full 

Of noble things, and held her from her sleep. 

Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the thought 

She needs must bid farewell to sweet Lavaine. 

First as in fear, step after step, she stole, 

Down the long tower-stairs, hesitating: 

Anon, slie heard Sir Lancelot cry in the court, 

" This shield, my friend, where is it? " and Lavaine 

Past inwaid, as she came from out the tower. 

There to his proud horse Lancelot turn'd, and smooth'd 

The gloss\' shoulder, humming to liimself. 

Half-envious of the flattering hand, slie drew 

Nearer and stood. He look'd, and more amazed 

Than if seven men had set upon him, saw 

The maiden standing in the dewv light. 

He had not dreamed she was so beautiful. 

Then came on him a sort of sacred fear. 

For silent, tho' he greeted her, she stood 

Rapt on his foce as if it were a God's. 

Suddenly flashed on her a wild desire, 

That he should wear her favor at the tilt. 

She braved a riotous heart in asking for it. 

" Fair lord, whose name I know not — noble it is, 

I well believe, the noblest — will you wear 

My favor at this tourney? " " Nay," said he, 

" Fair lady, since I never yet have worn 

Favor of any lady in the lists. 

Such is my wont, as those, who know me, know." 

" Yea, so," she answer'd; " then in wearing mine 

Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord. 

That those who know should know you." And he turn'd 

Her counsel up and down within his mind. 

And found it true, and answer'd, " True, my child. 

Well, I will wear it: fetch it out to me: 

What is it? " and she told him " a red sleeve 

Broider'd with pearls," and brought it: then he bound 

Her token on his helmet, with a smile 

Saying, " I never yet have done so much 

For any maiden living," and the blood 
42 



658 ELAINE. 



Sprang to her face, and fillVl her with dehght; 

But left her all the paler, when Lavaine 

Returning brought the yet iinblazon'd shield, 

His brother's; which he gave to Lancelot, 

Who parted with his own to fair Elaine; 

" Do me this grace, nyy child, to have my shield 

In keeping till I come." "A grace to me," 

She answer'd, " twice to-day. I am your Squire." 

Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, " Lily maid, 

For fear our people call you lily maid 

In earnest, let me bring your color back; 

Once, twice, and thrice: now get you hence to bed:' 

So kiss'd her, and Sir Lancelot his own hand, 

And thus they moved away: she stay'd a minute, 

Then made a sudden step to the gate, and tliere — 

Her bright hair blown about the serious face 

Yet rosy-kindled with her brother's kiss — 

Paused in the gateway, standing by the shield 

In silence, while she watch'd their arms far off 

Sparkle, until they dipt below the downs. 

Then to her tower she climb'd, and toak the shield, 

There kept it, and so lived in fantasy. 

Meanwhile the new companions past away 
Far o'er the long backs of the bushless downs. 
To where Sir Lancelot knew there lived a knight 
Not far from Camelot, now for forty years 
A hermit, who had pray'd, labor'd and pray'd 
And ever laboring had scoop'd himself 
In the white rock a chapel and a hall 
On massive columns, like a shoreclifF cave, 
And cells and chambers: all were fair and diy; 
The green light from the meadows underneath 
Struck up and lived along the milky roofs; 
And in the meadows tremulous aspen-trees. 
And poplars made a noise of falling showers. 
And thither wending there that night they bode. 

But when the next day broke from underground, 
And shot red fire and shadows thro' the cave, 
They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and rode away: 
Then Lancelot saying, " Hear, but hold my name 
Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the Lake." 
Abashed Lavaine, whose instant reverence. 



ELAINE. 

Dearer to true young hearts than their own praise, 
But left him leave to stammer, " Is it indeed? " 
And after muttering " the great Lancelot" 
At last he got his breath and answer'd, " One, 
One have I seen — that other, our liege lord. 
The dread Pendragon, Britain's king of kings. 
Of whom the people talk mysteriously. 
He will be there — then were I stricken blind 
That minute, I might say that I had seen." 

So spake Lavaine, and when they reach'd the lists 
By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes 
Run thro' the peopled gallery which half round 
Lay like a rainbow fall'n upon the grass, 
Until they found the clear-faced King, who sat 
Robed in red samite, easily to be known, 
Since to his crown the golden dragon clung, 
And down his robe the dragon writhed in gold, 
And from the carven-work behind him crept 
Two dragons gilded, sloping down to make 
Arms for his chair, while all the rest of them 
Thro' knots and loops and folds innumerable 
Fled ever thro' the woodwork, till they found 
The new design wherein they lost themselves. 
Yet with all ease, so tender was the work: 
And in the costl}' canopy o'er him set. 
Blazed the last diamond of the nameless king. 

Then Lancelot answer'd young Lavaine and said, 
" Me you call great: mine is the firmer seat, 
The truer lance: but there is many a youth 
Now crescent, who will come to all I am 
And overcome it; and in me there dwells 
No greatness, save it be some far-off touch 
Of greatness to know well I am not great: 
There is the man." And Lavaine gaped upon him 
As on a thing miraculous, and anon 
The trumpets blew; and then did either side, 
They that assailed, and they that held the lists, 
Sef lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move. 
Meet in the midst, and there so furiously 
Shock, that a man far-off might well perceive, 
If any man that day were left afield. 
The hard earth shake, and a low thunder of arms. 



659 



060 ELAINE. 



And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw 
Which were the weaker: then he hiul'd into it 
Against the stronger: little need to speak 
Of Lancelot in his glory: King, duke, earl, 
Count, baron — whom he smote, he overthrew. 

But in the field were Lancelot's kith and kin, 
Ranged with the Table Round that held the lists, 
Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger knight 
Should do and almost overdo the deeds 
Of Lancelot; and one said to the other, " Lo! 
What is he? I do not mean the force alone. 
The grace and versatilitv of the man — 
Is it not Lancelot!" " When has Lancelot worn 
Favor of any lady in the lists? 

Not such his wont, as we, that know him, know." 
"How then? who then?" a fury seized on them, 
A fiery familv passion for the name 
Of Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs. 
They couch'd their spears and prick'd their steeds and thus. 
Their plumes driv'n backward by the wind they made 
In moving, all together down upon him 
Bare, as a wild wave in the wild North sea, 
Green-glimmering toward the summit, bears, with all 
Its storm)' crests that smote against the skies, 
Down on a bark, and overbears the bark, 
And him that helms it, so they overbore 
Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear 
Down-glancing lamed the charger, and a spear 
Prick'd sharply his own cuirass, and the head 
Pierced thro' his side, and there snapt, and remain'd. 

Then Sir Lavaine ditl well and worshipfullv; 
He bore a knight of old repute to the earth. 
And brought his horse to Lancelot where he lay. 
He up the side, sweating with agcny, got, 
But thought to do while he might yet endure 
And being lustily holpen by the rest. 
His party, — tho' it seemed half-miracle 
To those he fought with — drave his kith and kin, 
And all the Table Round that held the lists. 
Back to the barrier; then the heralds blew 
Proclaiming his the prize, who wore the sleeve 
Of scarlet, and the pearls; and all the knights, 



ELAINE. . 661 



His party, cried " Advance, and take your prize 
The diamond;" but he answer'd, " Diamond me 
No diamonds! for God's love, a little air! 
Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death! 
Hence will I and I charge you, follow me not." 

He spoke, and vanish'd suddenly from the field 
With young Lavaine into the poplar grove. 
There from his charger down he slid, and sat. 
Gasping to Sir Lavaine, " Draw the lance-head:" 
« Ah, my sweet lord. Sir Lancelot," said Lavaine, 
" I dread me, if I draw it, you will die." 
But he, " I die already with it: draw — 
Draw " — and Lavaine drew, and that other gave 
A marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan, 
And half his blood burst forth, and down he sank 
For the pure pain, and wholly swoon'd away. 
Then came the hermit out and bare him in, 
There stanch'd his wound; and there, in daily doubt 
Whether to live or die, for many a week 
Hid from the wide world's rumor by the grove 
Of poplars with tiieir noise of falling showers, 
And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he lay. 

But on that day when Lancelot fled the lists, 
His party, knights of utmost North and West, 
Lords of waste marshes, kings of desolate isles. 
Came round their great Pendragon, saying to him, 
"Lo, Siie, our knight thro' whom we won the day 
Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left his prize 
Untaken, crying that his pi-ize is death." 
" Heaven hinder," said the King, " that sucii an one. 
So great a knight as we have seen to-day — 
He seem'd to me another Lancelot — 
Yea, twenty times I thought him Lancelot — 
He must not pass uncared for. Gaw ain, rise, 
My nephew, and ride forth antl find the knisjht. 
Wounded and wearied, needs must he be near. 
I chaige you that you get at once to horse. 
Ami, knights and kings, there breathes not one of you 
Will deem this prize of ours is rashly given: 
His prowess was too wondrous. We will do him 
No customary honor: since the knight 
Came not to us, of us to claim the prize, 



662 ELAINE. 



Ourselves will send it after. Wiierefore take 
This diamond, and deliver it, and return. 
And bring us what he is and how he fares. 
And cease not from your quest, until you find." 

So saying, from the carven flower above, 
To which it made a restless heart, he took. 
And gave, the diamond: then from where he sat 
At Arthur's right, with smiling face arose. 
With smiling face and frowning heart, a Prince 
In the mid might and flourish of his May, 
Gawain, surnanied The Courteous, fair and strong, 
And after Lancelot, Tristram, and Geraint 
And Lamorack, a good knight, but therewithal 
Sir Modred's brother, of a crafty house. 
Nor often loyal to iiis word, and now 
Wroth that the king's command to sally forth 
In quest of whom he knew not, made him leave 
The banquet, and concourse of knights and kings. 

So all in wrath he got to horse and went; 
While Arthur to the banquet, dark in mood, 
Past, thinking, " Is it Lancelot who has com& 
Despite the wound he spake of, all for gain 
Of glory, and has added wound to wound, 
And ridd'n away to die? " So feared the King, 
And, after two days' tarriance there, return'd. 
Then when he saw the Queen, embracing, ask'd 
" Love, are you yet so sick? " " Nay, Lord," she said. 
"And where is Lancelot?" Then the Queen, amazed, 
" Was he not with you? won he not your prize? " 
" Nay, but one like him." « Why that like was he." 
And when the King demanded how she knew. 
Said, " Lord, no sooner had you parted from us, 
Than Lancelot told me of a common talk 
That men went down before his spear at a touch. 
But icnowing he was Lancelot; his great name 
Conquer'd; and therefore would he hide his name 
From all men, e'en the king, and to this end 
Had made the pretext of a hindering wound. 
That he might joust unknown of all, and learn 
If his old prowess were in aught decay'd : 
And added, ' Our true Arthur, when he learns, 
Will well allow my pretext, as for gain 



ELAINE 6oii 



Of purer glory.' " 

Then replied the King: 
" Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been, 
In lieu of idly dallying with the truth, 
To have trusted me as he has trusted you. 
Surely his king and most familiar friend 
Might well have kept his secret. True, indeed, 
Albeit I know my knights fantastical, 
So fine a fear in our large Lancelot 
Must needs have moved my laughter; now lemains 
But little cause for laughter: his own kin — 
111 news, my Queen, for all who love him, these; 
His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon him ; 
So that he went sore wounded from the field : 
Yet good news too: for goodly hopes are mine 
That Lancelot is no more a lonely heart. 
He wore, against his wont, upon his helm 
A sleeve of scarlet, broidered with great pearls, 
Some gentle maiden's gift." 

« Yea, lord," she said, 
"Your hopes are mine," and saying that she choked, 
And sharpl)' turn'd about to hide her fiice. 
Moved to her chamber, and there flung herself 
Down on the great King's couch, and writhed upon it. 
And clench'd her fingers till they bit the palm. 
And shriek'd out "traitor" to the unhearins- wall. 
Then flash'd into wild tears, and rose again, 
And moved about her palace, proud and pale. 

Gawain tlie while thro' all the region round 
Rode with his diamond. Wearied of the quest, 
Touch'd at all points, except the poplar grove, 
And came at last, tlio' late, to Astolat: 
Whom glittering in enaniell'd arms the maid 
Glanced at, and cried, " What news from Camelot, lord.? 
What of the knight with the red sleeve?" " He won." 
" I knew it," she said. " But parted from the jousts 
Hurt in the side," whereat she caught her breath. 
Thro' her own side she felt the sharp lance go; 
Thereon she smote her hand: wellnigh she swooi^'d: 
And while he gazed wonderingly at her, came 
The lord of Astolat out, to whom the Prince 
Reported who he was, and on what quest 
Sent, that he bore the prize and could not find 



^^^ ELAINE. 



The victor, but had ridden wildiy round 
To seek him, and was wearied of the search. 
To whom the lord of Astolat, " Bide vvich us, 
And ride no longer wildly, noble Prince. 
Here was the knight, and here he left a shield; 
This will he send or come for: furthermore 
Our son is with him; we shall hear anon, 
Needs must we hear." To this the courteous Prince 
Accorded with his wonted courtesy, 
Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it. 
And stay'd; and cast his eyes on fair Elaine: 
Where could be found face daintier? then her shape 
From forehead down to foot perfect — again 
From foot to forehead exquisitely turn'd : 
"Well — if I bide, lo! this wild flower for me! " 
And oft they met among the garden yews, 
And there he set himself to play upon her 
With sallying wit, free flasiies from a height 
Above her, graces of the court, and songs, 
Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden eloquence 
And amorous adulation, till the maid 
Rebell'd against it, saying to him, " Prince, 
O loyal nephew of our noble King, 
Why ask you not to see the shield he left, 
Whence you might learn his name? Why slight your King, 
And lose the quest he sent you on, and prove 
No surer than our falcon yesterday, 
Who lost the hern we slipt him at, and went 
To all the winds? " " Nay, by mine head," said he. 
" I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven, 
O damsel, in the light of your blue eyes; 
But an you will it let me see the shield." 
And when the shield was brought, and Gawain saw 
Sir Lancelot's azure lions, crown'd with gold, 
Ramp in the field, he smote his thigh and mock'd: 
"Right was the King! our Lancelot! that true man!'' 
" And right was I," she answer'd merrily, " I, 
vV^ho dream'd my knight the greatest knight of all." 
•'And if /dream'd," said Gawain, "that you love 
This greatest knight, vour pardon! lo, you know it! 
bpenk therefore: shall I wasts myself in vain?" 
Full simple was her answer: " What know I? 
My brethren have been all my fellowship. 
And I, when often thev have talk'd of love, 
Wisnd it had been my mother, for they talk'd, 



ELAINE 665 

Meseem'd, of what they knew not; so myr,elf — 

I know not if I know what true love is, 

But if I know, then, if I love not him, 

Methinks there is none other I can love." 

« Yea, by God's death," said he, "you love him well, 

But would not, knew you what all others know, 

And whom he loves." " So be it," cried Elaine, 

And lifted her fair face and moved away: 

But he pursued her calling, "Stay a little! 

One golden minute's grace: he wore your sleeve: 

Would he break f:iith with one I n.ay not name? 

Must our true man change like a leaf at last? 

May it be so? why then, tar be it from me 

To cross our mighty Lancelot in his loves.' 

And, damsel, for I deem you know full well 

Where your great knight is hidden, let me leave 

My quest with you: the diamond also: here! 

For if you love, it will be sweet to give it; 

And if he love, it will be sweet to have it 

From your own hand; and whether he loves or not. 

A diamond is a diamond. Fare you well 

A thousand times! — a thousand times farewell! 

Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we two 

May meet at court hereafter: there, I think. 

So you will learn the courtesies of the court, 

We two shall know each other." 

Then he gave, 
And slightly kiss'd the hand to which he gave, 
The diamond, and all wearied of the quest 
Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he went 
A tiue-love ballad, lightly rode away. 

Thence to the court he past; there told the King 
What the King knew, "Sir Lancelot is the knight." 
And added, " Sire, my liege, so much I learnt; 
But fail'd to find him tho' I rode all round 
The region; but I lighted on the maid, 
Whose sleeve he wore; she loves him; and to her, 
Deeming our courtesy is the truest law, 
I gave the diamond: she will render it; 
For by my head she knows his hiding place.* 

The seldom-frowning King frown'd, and replied, 
"Too courteous truly! you shall go no more 



666 BLAINE. 



On quest of mine, seeing that 3011 forget 
Obedience is the courtesy due to kings." 

He spake and parted. Wroth but all in awe, 
For twenty strokes of the blood, without a word, 
Linger'd that other, staring after him ; 
Then shook his hair, strode off, and buzz'd abroad 
About the maid of Astolat, and her love. 
All ears were prick'd at once, all tongues were loosed: 
" The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lancelot, 
Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Astolat." 
Some read the King's face, some the Queen's, and all 
Had marvel what the maid might be, but most 
Predoom'd her as unworthy. One old dame 
Came suddenly on the Queen with the sharp news. 
She, that had heard the noise of it before, 
But sorrowing Lancelot should have stoop'd so low, 
Marr'd her friend's point with pale tranquillity. 
So ran the tale like fire about the court, 
Fire in drv stubble a nine days' wonder flared: 
Till ev'n the knights at banquet twice or thrice 
Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the Queen, 
And pledging Lancelot and the lily maid 
Smiled at each other, while the Queen who sat 
With lips severelv placid felt tlie knot 
Climb in her throat, and with her feet unseen 
Crush'd the wild passion out against the floor 
Beneath the banquet, where the meats became 
As wormwood, and she hated all who pledged. 

But far away the maid in Astolat, 
Her guiltless rival, slie that ever kept 
The one-dav-seen Sir Lancelot in her heart. 
Crept to her father, while he mused alone, 
Sat on his knee, stroked his gra}' face and said, 
"Father, you call me wilful, and the fault 
Is yours who let me have my will, and now. 
Sweet father, will you let me lose my wits?" 
" Nay," said he, " surely." "Wherefore let me hence," 
She answer'd "and find out our dear Lavaine." 
"You will not lose your wits for dear Lavaine: 
Bide," answer'd he: "we needs must hear anon 
Of him, and of that other." "Ay," she said, 
"And of that other, for I needs must hence 



ELAINE. 667 



And find that otiier, wheresoe'er he be, 

And with mhie own hand give iiis diamond to him, 

Lest I be found as faithless in the quest 

As yon proutl Prince who left the quest to me. 

Sweet father, I behold him in my dreams 

Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself. 

Death-pale, for lack of gentle maiden's aid. 

The gentler-born the maiden, the more bound, 

My father, to be sweet and serviceable 

To noble knights in sickness, as you know, 

When these have worn their tokens: let me hence, 

1 pray you." Then her father nodding said, 

"Ay, ay, the diamond: wit you well, my child. 

Right fain were I to learn this knight were whole. 

Being our greatest: yea, and you must give it — 

And sure I think this fruit is hung too high 

For any mouth to gape for save a Queen's — 

Nay, I mean nothing: so then, get you gone, 

Being so very wilful you must go." 

Lightly, her suit allow'd, she slipt awaj'. 
And while she made her ready for her ride, 
Her father's latest word humm'd in her ear, 
" Being so very wilful you must go," 
And changed itself and echoed in her heart, 
" Being so very wilful you must die." 
But she was happy enough and shook it off", 
As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us; 
And in her heart she answer'd it and said, 
" What matter, so I help him back to life? " 
Then far away with good Sir Torre for guide 
Rode o'er the long backs of the bushless downs 
To Camelot, and before the city-gates 
Came on her brother with a happy face 
Making a roan horse caper and curvet 
For pleasure all about a field of flowers: 
Whom when she saw, " Lavaine," siie cried, " Lavaine- 
How fares my lord Sir Lancelot? " He amazed, 
"Torre and Elaine! whv here? Sir Lancelot! 
How know 3'ou my lord's name is Lancelot? " 
But when the maid had told him all her tale. 
Then turn'd Sir Torre, and being in his moods. 
Left them, and under the strange-statued gate. 
Where Arthur's wars were render'd mystically, 



668 EJ.AINE. 



Past up the still rich city to his kin, 
His own far blood, which dwelt at Canielot; 
And her Lavaine across the poplar grove 
Led to the caves: there first she saw the casque 
Of Lancelot on the wall: her scarlet sleeve, 
Tho' carved and cut, and half the pearls away, 
Stream'd from it still; and in her heart she laugh'd, 
Because he had not loosed it from his helm, 
But meant once more perchance to tourney in it. 
And when they gain'd the cell in which he slept, 
His battle-vvrithen arms and mighty hands 
Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a dream 
Of dragging- down his enemy made them move. 
Then she that saw him lying unsleek, unshorn. 
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, 
Utter'd a little tender dolorous cry. 
The sound not wonted in a place so still 
Woke the sick knight, and while he roU'd his eyes 
Yet blank from sleep, she started to him, saying, 
" Your prize the diamond sent you by the King:" 
His eyes glisten'd: she fancied " is it for mo?" 
And when the maid had toKl him all the tale 
Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, tiie quest 
Assign'd to her not worthy of it, she knelt 
Full lovvlv bv the corners of his bed. 
And laid the diamond in his open hand. 
Her face was near, and as we kiss tiie child 
That does the task assign'd, he kiss'd her face. 
At once she slipt like water to the floor. 
'Alas," he said, " your ride has weaned vou. 
Rest must vou have." "No rest for me," she said; 
" Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest." 
What might she mean by that? his large black eyes. 
Yet larger thro' his leanness, dwelt upon lu-r, 
Till all her heart's sad secret blazed itself 
In the heart's colors on her simple face; 
And Lancelot iook'd and was perplext in mind, 
And being weak in bodv said no moie; 
But did not love the color; woman's love. 
Save one, he not regarded, and so turn'd 
Sighing, and feign'd a sleep until he slept. 

Then rose Elaine and glided thro' the fields, 
And past beneath the wildly-sculptured gates 



ELAINE. 



Far up the dim rich cit^' to Iner liin; 

There bode the night: but woke with dawn, and past 

Down thro' the dim rich city to the fields. 

Thence to the cave: so day b}' dav she past 

In either twilight ghost-like to and fro 

Gliding, and every day she tended iiim, 

And likewise many a night : and Lancelot 

Would, tho' he call'd his wound a little hiu't 

Whereof he should be quicklv whole, at times 

Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem 

Uncourteous, even he: but the meek maiil 

Sweetly forbore him ever, being to him 

Meeker than any child to a rough nurse, 

Milder than any mother to a sick child, 

And never woman yet, since man's first fall, 

Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love 

Upbore her; till the hermit, skill'd in all 

The simples and the science of that time, 

Told him that her fine care had saved his life. 

And the sick man forgot her simple blush. 

Would call her friend and sister, sweet Elaine, 

Would listen for her coming and regret 

Her parting step, and held her tenderly, 

And loved her with all love except the love 

Of man and woman when they love their best 

Closest and sweetest, and had died the death 

In any knightly fashion for her sake. 

And perailventure had he seen her first 

She might have made this and that other world 

Another world for the sick man; but now 

The shackles of an old ln\e straiten'd him, 

His honor rooted in dishonor stood, 

And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. 

Yet the great knight in his mid-sickness made 
Full man}' a holy vow and pure resolve. 
These, as but born of sickness, could not live: 
For when the blood ran lustier in him again. 
Full often the sweet image of one face, 
Making a treacherous quiet in his heart, 
Dispersed his resolution like a cloud. 
Then if the maiden, while that ghostly grace 
Beam'd on his fancy, spoke, he answer'd not. 
Or short and coldly, and she knew right well 



670 ELAINE. 



What the rough sickness meant, but wli;it this meant 

She knew not, and the sorrow dimm'd her sight, 

And drave her ere her time across the fields 

Far into the rich citj', where alone 

She murmur'd, " Vain, in vain : it cannot be. 

He will not love me: how then? must I die?" 

Then as a little helpless innocent bird. 

That has but one plain passage of few notes, 

Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er 

For all an April morning, till the ear 

Wearies to hear it, so the simple m.aid 

Went half the night repeating, " Must I die?" 

And now to right she turn'd, and now to left, 

And found no ease in turning or in rest; 

And "him or death" she mutter'd, "deatli or him," 

Again and like a burthen, '• him or death." 

But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt was whole. 
To Astolat returning rode the three. 
There morn by morn, arraying her sweet self 
In that wherein she deem'd she look'd her best, 
She came before Sir Lancelot, for she thought 
" If I be loved, these are my festal robes 
If not, the victim's flowers before he fall." 
And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid 
That she should ask some goodly gift of him 
For her own self or hers; "and do not shun 
To speak the wish most near to vour true heart; 
Such service have 3'ou done me, that I make 
My will of vours, and Prince and Lord am I 
In mine own land, and what I will I can." 
Then like a ghost she lifted up her face. 
But like a ghost without the power to speak. 
And Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish, 
And bode among them yet a little space. 
Till he should learn it; and one morn it ciianced 
He found her in among the garden vews. 
And said, "Delay no longer, speak your wish. 
Seeing I must go to-day:" then out she brake; 
« Going? and we shail never see 3-ou more. 
And I must die for want of one bold word." 
"Speak: that I live to hear," he said, "is yours." 
Then suddenly and passionately she spoke : 
"I have gone mad. I love vou: let me die." 



ELAINE. 67] 



"Ah sister," ansvver'd Lancelot, " what is this?" 

And innocently extending her white arms, 

" Your love," she said, " your love — -to be your wife." 

And Lancelot answer'd, " Had I chos'n to wed, 

I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine: 

But now there never will be wife of mine." 

" No, no," she cried, " I care not to be wife. 

But to be with you still, to see your face, 

To serve you, and to follow you thro' the world." 

And Lancelot answer'd, " Nay, the world, the world. 

All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart 

To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue 

To blare its own interpretation — nay. 

Full ill then should I quit your brother's love. 

And your good father's kindness." And she said, 

" Not to be with you, not to see your face, 

Alas for me then, my good days are done." 

"Nay, noble maid," he answer'd, "ten times nav! 

This is not love: but love's first flash in youth. 

Most common: yea, I know it of mine own self: 

And you yourself will smile at your own self 

Hereafter, when you yield 3'our flower of life 

To one more fitly yours, not thrice your age: 

And then will I, for true you are and sweet 

Beyond mine old belief in womanhood. 

More specially should your good knight be poor, 

Endow you with broad land and territory 

Even to the half my realm beyond the seas. 

So that would make you happy; furthermore, 

Ev'n to the death, as tho' you were my blood, 

In all your quarrels will I be your knight. 

This will I do, dear damsel, for your sake. 

And more than this I cannot." 

While he spoke 
She neither blush'd nor shook, but deathly pale 
Stood grasping what was nearest, then rejjlied, 
"Of all this will I nothing;" and so fell. 
And thus they bore her swooning to her tower. 

Then spake, to whom thro' those black walls of yew 
Their talk had pierced, her father, " Ay, a flash, 
I fear me, that will strike my blossom dead. 
Too courteous are you, fair Lord Lancelot. 
I pray you, use some rough discourtesy 



672 ELAINE. 



To blunt or break ber passion." 

Lancelot said, 
"That were against me; what I can I will;" 
And there that day remain'd, and toward even 
Sent for his shield: full meekly rose the maid, 
Stript off the case, and gave the naked shield; 
Then, when she heard his horse upon the stones, 
Unclasping flung the casement back, and look'd 
Down on his helm, from which her sleeve hati gone. 
And Lancelot knew the little clinking sound: 
And she by tact of love was well aware 
That Lancelot knew that she was looking at him. 
And yet he glanced not up, nor waved his hand, 
Nor bade farewell, but sadly rode away. 
This was the one discourtesy that he used. 

So in her tower alone the maiden sat: 
His very shield was gone: only the case, 
Her own poor work, her empty labor, left. 
But still she heaid him, still his pictiu'e foim'd 
And grew between her and the pictured wall. 
Then came her father, saj'ing in low tones, 
" Have comfort," whom she greeted quietly. 
Then came her brethren saying, "Peace to thee. 
Sweet sister," whom she answer'd with all calm. 
But when the_y left her to herself again. 
Death, like a friend's voice from a distant field 
Approaching thro' the darkness, called ; the owls 
Wailing had power upon her, and she mixt 
Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms 
Of evening, and the raoanlngs of the wind. 

And in those days she made a little song. 
And call'd her song " The Song of Love and Death," 
And sang it: sweetly could she make and sing. 

"Sweet is true love,"tho' given in vain, in vain; 
And sweet is death who puts an end to pain: 
I know not which is sweeter, no, not L 

"Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be: 
Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me. 
O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die. 



ELAINE. 673" 



" Sweet Love, that seems not made to fade awav, 
Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay, 
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

" I fain would follow love, if that could be: 
I needs must follow death, who calls for me; 
Call and I follow, I follow! let me die." 

High with the last line scaled her voice, and this, 
All in a fiery dawning wild with wind 
That shook her tower, the brothers heard, and thought 
With shuddering, "Hark the Phantom of the house 
That ever shrieks before a death," and call'd 
The father, and all three in hurry and fear 
Ran to her, and lo! the blood-red light of dawn 
Flared on her face, she shrilling "Let me die!" 

As when we dwell upon a word we know, 
Repeating, till the woid we know so well 
Becomes a wonder and we know not why, 
So dwelt the father on her face and thought 
"Is this Elaine?" till back the maiden fell, 
Then gave a languid hand to each, and lay, 
Speaking a still gootl-morrow with her eyes. 
At last she said, " Sweet brothers, yesternight 
I seem'd a curious little maid again. 
As happy as when we dwelt among the woods. 
And when you used to take me with the flood 
Up the great river in the boatman's boat. 
Only you would not pass beyond the cape 
That has the poplar on it: there you fixt 
Your limit, oft returning with the tide. 
And yet 1 cried because you would not pass 
Beyond it, and far up the shining flood 
Until we found the palace of the king. 
And yet you would not; but this niglit I dream'd 
That I was all alone upon the flood. 
And then I said, 'Now shall I have my will:' 
And there I woke, but still the wish remain'd. 
So let me hence that I may pass at last 
Beyond the poplar and far up the flood, 
LJntil I find the palace of the king. 
There will I enter in among them all, 
49 



1574 



ELAINE. 



And no man there will dure to mock at me; 
But there the fine Gawain will wonder at me, 
And there the great Sir Lancelot muse at me; 
Gawain, who bade a thousand f;irewells to me, 
Lancelot, who coldly went nor bade me one: 
And there the King \vill know me and my love, 
And there the Queen herself will pity me, 
And all the gentle court will welcome me, 
And after my long voyage I shall rest!" 

" Peace," said her father, " O my child, you seem 
Light-headed, for what force is yours to go, 
So far, being sick? and wherefore would you look 
On this proud fellow again, who scorns us all? " 

Then the rough Torre began to heave and niovev 
And bluster into stormy sobs and say, 
« I never loved him: an I meet with him, 
I care not howsoever great lie be. 
Then will I strike at him and strike him down. 
Give me good fortune, I will strike him dead, 
For this discomfort he hath done the house." 

To which the gentle sister made reply, 
" Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor ije wroth. 
Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's fault 
Not to love me, than is it mine to love 
Him of all men who seems to me the highest." 

"Highest? " the Father answer'd, echoing " highest." 
(He meant to break the passion in her.) " Nay, 
Daughter, I know not what you call the highest J 
But this I know, for all the people know it. 
He loves the Queen, and in an open shame; ' 
And she returns his love in open shame. 
If this be high, what is it to be low?" 

Then spake the lily maid of Astolaf. 
"Sweet father, all too faint and sick am I 
For anger: these are slanders: never yet 
Was noble man but made ignoble talk. 
He makes no friend who never made a foe. 
But now it is my glory to have loved 



ELAINE. 675 

One peerless, without staii): so let me pass, 
My father, hovvsoe'cr I seem to you, 
Not ail unhappy, having loved God's best 
And greatest, tho' my love had no return: 
Yet, seeing you desire your child to live, 
Thanks, but you work against your own desire' 
For if I could believe the things you say 
I should but die the sooner: wherefore cease, 
Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly man 
Hither, and let me shrive me clean, and die." 

So when the ghostly man had come and gone, 
She with a face, bright as for sin forgiven. 
Besought Lavaine to write as she devised 
A letter, word for word; and when he ask'd 
" Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear lord? 
Then will I bear it gladly ; " she replied, 
« For Lancelot and the Queen and all the world, 
But I myself must bear it." Then he wrote 
The letter she devised; which being writ 
And folded, " O sweet father, tender and true, 
Den3' n.e not," she said — "you never yet 
Denied ray fancies — this, liowever strange, 
My latest: lay the letter in my hand 
, A little ere I die, and close the hand 
Upon it; I siiall guard it even in death, 
And when the heat is gone from out mv heart. 
Then take the little bed on wiiich I died 
For Lancelot's love, and deck it like the Qiieen'q 
For richness, and me also like the Queen 
In all I have of ricii, and lay me on it. 
And let there be prepared a chariot-bier 
To taJve me to the river, and a barge 
Be ready on the river, clothed in black. 
[ go in state to court, to meet the Queen. 
There surely I shall speak for mine own self. 
And none of you can sp^ak for me so well. 
And therefore let our dumb old man alone 
Go with me, he can steer and row, and he 
Will guide me to that palace, to the doors." 

She ceased: her father promised; whereupon 
She grew so cheerful that they deem'd her death 
Was rather in the fantasy than the blood. 




(676) 



ELAINE. 677 



But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventh 
Her father laid the letter in her hand, 
And closed the hand upon it, and she died. 
So that day there was dole in Astolat. 

But when the next sun brake tVom underground, 
Then, those two brethren slowly with bent bro\vs 
Accomjjanying, the sad chariot-bier 
Past like a shadow thro' the field, that shone 
Full-summer, to that stream whereon the barge, 
Pall'd all its length in blackest samite, lay. 
There sat the lifelong creature of the house. 
Loyal, the duinb old servitor, on deck 
Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face. 
So those two brethren from the chariot took 
And on the black decks laid her in her bed. 
Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung 
The silken case with braided blazonings, 
And kiss'd her quiet brows, and saying to her, 
" Sister, farewell forever," and again, 
" Farewell, sweet sister," parted all in tears. 
Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead 
Steer'd b}' the dumb went upward with the flood — 
In her right hand the lily, in her left 
The letter — all her bright hair streaming down — 
And all the coverlid was cloth of gold 
Down to her waist, and she herself in white 
All but her face, and that clear-featured face 
Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead 
But fast asleep, and lay as tho' she smiled. 

That day Sir Lancelot at the palace craved 
Audience of Guinevere, to give at last 
The price of half a realm, his costlv gift, 
Hard-won and hardly won with biuise and blow, 
With deaths of others, and almost his own. 
The niue-years-fought-for diamonds: for he saw 
One of her house, and sent him to the Queen 
Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen agreed 
With such and so unmoved a majesty 
She might have seem'd her statue, but that he, 
Low-drooping till he wellnigh kiss'd her feet 
For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye 
The shadow of a piece of pointed lace, 



^78 ELAINE. 



Ill the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the walls, 
And parted, laughing in his courtly heart. 

All in an oriel on the summer side, 
Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward the stream, 
They met, and Lancelot kneeling iitter'd "Queen, 
Lady, my liege, in whom I have my jov, 
Take, what I had not won except for you, 
These jewels, and make me happj', making them 
Ar armlet for the roundest arm on earth, 
Or necklace for a neck to which the swan's 
Is tawnier than her cygnet's: these are words: 
Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin 
In speaking, yet O grant my worship of it 
Words, as we grant grief tears'. Such sin in words 
Perchance, we both can pardon: but, my Queen, 
I hear of rumors flying thro' your court. 
Our bond, as not the bond of man and wife, 
Should have in it an absoluter trust 
To make up that defect: let rumors be: 
When did not rumors fly? these, as I trust 
That you trust me in your own nobleness, 
I may not well believe that you believe." 

While thus he spoke, half turned away, the Queen 
Brake from the vast oriel-embowering vine 
Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast them off", 
Till all the place whereon she stood was green; 
Then, when he ceased, in one cold passive hand 
Received at once and laid aside the gems 
There on a table near, and replied: 

" It may be, I am quicker of belief 
Than you believe me, Lancelot of the Lake. 
Our bond is not the bond of man and wife. 
This good is in it, whatsoe'r of ill. 
It can be broken easier. I for you 
This many a year have done despite and wrong 
To one whom ever in my heart of hearts 
I did acknowledge nobler. What are these? 
Diamonds for me! they had been thrice theii' worth 
Being your gift, had you not lost your own. 
To loyal hearts the value of all gifts 
Must vary as the giver's. Not for me! 



ELAIXE. 679 



For her! for your new fancy. Only this 

Grant me, I pray you: have your joys apart. 

I doubt not that however changed, you keep 

So much of what is g-raceful : and mvself 

Would shun to break those bounds of courtesy 

In which as Arthur's queen I move and rule; 

So cannot speak m^' miiui. An end to this! 

A strange one! yet I take it with Amen. 

So pray you, add my diamonds to her pearls; 

Deck her with these; tell her, she shines me down: 

An armlet for an arm to which the Queen's 

Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck 

O as much fairer — as a faith once fair 

Was richer than these diamonds — hers not mine — 

Nay, by the mother of our Lord himself. 

Or hers or mine, mine now to work mv will — 

She shall not have them." 

Saying which she seized. 
And thro' the casement standing wide for heat, 
Flung them, and down they flash'd, and smote the stream. 
Then from the smitten surface flash'd as it were, 
Diamonds to meet them, and they past away. 
Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half disgust 
At love, life, all things, on the window ledge, 
Close underneath his eyes, and right across 
Where these had fallen, slowly past the barge 
Whereon the lily maid of Astolnt 
Lay smiling, like a star in blackest night. 

But the wild Queen, who saw not, burst awav 
To weep and wail in secret; and the barge 
On to the palace-doorway sliding, paused. 
There two stood arm'd, and kept the door; to whom, 
All up the marble stair, tier over tier. 
Were added mouths that gaped, and eyes that ask'd 
" What is it? " but that oarsman's haggard face, 
As hard and still as is the face that men 
Shape to their fancy's eye from broken rocks 
On some cliff-side, appall'd them, and thev said, 
" He is enchanted, cannot speak —and she. 
Look how she sleeps — the Fairy Queen, so fair! 
Yea, but how pale! what are they? flesh and blood? 
Or come to take the King to fairy land? 
For some do hold our Arthur cannot die. 
But that he passes into fairy land." 



680 ELAINE. 



While thus they babbled of the Kini,', the King 
Came girt with knights: then turnM the tongueless man 
From the half-face to the full eye, and rose 
And pointed to the damsel, and the doors. 
So«Arthur bade the meek Sir Percivale 
And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the maid; 
And reverently they bore her into Jiall. 
Then came the fine Gawain, and wonder'd at her, 
And Lancelot later came and mused at her, 
At last the Queen herself and pitied her: 
But Arthur spied the letter in her hand, 
Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it; this was all: 

"Most noble lord, Sir Lancelot of the Lake, 
I, sometime call'd the maid of Astolat, 
Come, for you left me taking no farewell. 
Hither, to take my last farewell of you. 
I loved you, and my love had no return. 
And therefore my true love has been my death. 
And therefore to our lad)- Guinevere, 
And to all other ladies, I make moan. 
Pray for my soul, and yield me burial. 
Pray for my soul, thou too, Sir Lancelot, 
As thou art a knight peerless." 

Thus he read, 
And ever in the readings lords and dames 
Wept, looking often from his face who read 
To hers wiiich lav so silent, and at times, 
So touch'd were they, iialf-thinking that her tips, 
Who had devised the letter, moved again. 

Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to them all; 
" My lord liege Arthur, and all ve that hear. 
Know that for this most gentle maiden's death 
Right heavy am I : for good siie was and true. 
But loved me with a love beyond all love 
In women, whomsoever I have known. 
Yet to he loved makes not to love again; 
Not at my years, however it hold in youth. 
I swear by truth and knighthood that I gave 
No cause, not willingly, for such a love: 
To this I call my friends in testimony. 



ELAINE. ggj 

Her brethren, and her father, who himself 
Besought me to be plain and blunt, and use. 
To break her passion, some discourtesy 
Against my nature: what I could, I did. 
I left her and I bade her no farewell. 
Tho' had I dreamt the damsel would have died, 
I might have put my wits to some rough use, 
And help'd her from herself." 

Then said the Queen 
(Sea was her wrath, yet working after storm), 
« You might at least have done her so much grace. 
Fair lord, as would have help'd her from her death." 
He raised his head, their eyes met and hers fell. 
He adding, 

" Queen, she would not be content 
Save that I wedded her, which could not be. 
Then might she follow me thro' the world, she ask'd; 
It could not be. I told her that her love 
Was but the flash of youth, would darken down 
To rise hereafter in a stiller flame 
Toward one more worthy of her— then would ;, 
More specially were he, she wedded, poor, 
Estate them with large land and territory 
In mine own realm beyond the narrow seas, 
To keep them in all joyance: more than this 
I could not: this she would not, and she died." 

He pausing, Arthur answer'd, " O my knigiit. 
It will be to your worship as my knight, 
And mine, as head of all our Table Round, 
To see that she be buried worshipfully." 

So toward that shrine which then in all the realm 
Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly went 
The marshall'd order of their Table Round, 
And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, to see 
The maiden buried, not as one unknown. 
Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies, 
And mass, and roiling music, like a Queen. 
And when tiie knights ha^l laid her comely head 
Low in the dust of half-forgotten kings, 
Then Arthur spake among them, « Let'her tomo 



882 ELAINE. 



Be costly, and her image thereupon. 

And let the shield of Lancelot at her feet 

Be carven, and her lily in her hand. 

Arid let the story of her dolorous voyage 

For all true hearts be blazon'd on her tomb 

In letters gold and azure!" which was wrought 

Thereafter; but when now the lords and dames 

And people, from the high door, streaming, brake 

Disorderly, as homeward each, the Queen, 

Who mark'd Sir Lancelot where he moved apart, 

Crew near, and sigh'd in passing, " Lancelot, 

Forgive me; mine was jealousy in love." 

He answer'd with his eyes upon the ground, 

"That is love's curse; pass on, my Queen, forgiven." 

But Artliur who beheld his cloudy brows 

ApDiouch'd him, and with full affection flung 

•Jjne arm about his neck, and spake and said: 

"Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in whom I have 
J.fost i^Y and most affiance, for I know 
V>niat thou hast been in battle by my side, 
And many a time have watch'd thee at the tilt 
Strike down the lusty and long-practised knight, 
And let the younger and unskill'd go by 
To whi his honor and to make his name. 
And loved thy courtesies and thee, a man 
Made to be loved; — but now I would to God 
For the wild people say wild things of thee. 
Thou couldst have loved this maiden, shaped, it seems_ 
By God for thee alone, and from her face. 
If one may judge the living by the dead. 
Delicately pure and marvellously fair, 
Who might have brought thee, now a lonely man 
Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons 
Born to the glory of thy name and fame, 
My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of the Lake." 

Then answer'd Lancelot, " Fair she was, my King, 
Pure, as )'0u ever wish your knights to be. 
To doubt her fairness were to w'ant an eye. 
To doubt her pureness were to want a heart. — 
Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love 
Could bind him, but free love will not be bound." 



ELAINE. fi83 



" Free love, so bound were freest," said the King. 
" Let love be free ; free love is for the best : 
And, after heaven, on our dull side of death. 
What should be best, if not so pure a love 
Clothed in so pure a loveliness? yet thee 
She fail'd to bind, tho' being, as I think. 
Unbound as yet, and gentle, as 1 know." 

Anvi Lancelot answer'd nothing, but he went, 
And at the inrunning of a little brook 
Sat by the river in a cove and watch'd 
The high reed wave, and lifted up his eyes 
And saw the barge that brought her moving down, 
Far-ofF, a blot upon the stream, and said 
Low in himself, "Ah simple heart and sweet, 
You loved me, damsel, surely with a love 
Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray for thy soul? 
A}', that will L Farewell too — now at last — 
Farewell, fair lily. 'Jealousy in love?' 
Not rather dead love's harsh heir, jealous pride? 
Queen, if I grant tlie jealousy as of love, 
May not your crescent fear for name and fame 
Speak, as it waxes, of a love that wanes? 
Why did the King dwell on niv name to me? 
Mine own name shames me, seeming a reproach, 
Laiicelot, whom the Lady of the Lake 
Stole from his mother — as the story runs — 
She chanted snatches of mysterious song 
Heard on the winding waters, eve and morn 
She kiss'd me saying thou art fair, my child, 
As a king's son, and often in her arms 
She bare me, pacing on the dusky mere. 
Would she had drown'd me in it, where'er it be! 
For what am I? what profits me ni}- name 
Of greatest kniglnt? I fought for it, and have it: 
Pleasure to have it, none; to lose it, pain: 
Now grown a part of me: but what use in it? 
To maive men worse by making my sin known? 
Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming great? 
Alas for Arthur's greatest knight, a man 
Not after Arthur's heart, I needs must break 
These bonds that so defame me: not without 
She wills it: would I, if she will'd it? nay, 
Who knows? but if I would not, then may God, 



684 



ELAINE. 



I pray him, send a sudden Angel down 
To seize me by the hair and bear me far, 
And fling me deep in that forgotten mere, 
Among the tumbled fragments of the hills.'' 

So groan'd Sir Lancelot in remorseful pain. 
Not knowing he should die a holv man. 







^^^v%^^^ ^•^'^?* 






i 






-■t^^~"^5~ 






GUINEVERE. 



68-5 




GUINEVERE, 



iQi UEEN GUINEVERE had fled the court, 
and sal 





There ip. the holy house at Ahnesbury 
Weeping, none with her save a little maid, 
A novice: one low light betwixt them 

burn'd 
Blurr'd by the creeping mist, for all abroad. 
Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full, 
The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face, 
Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still. 

For hither had she fled, her cause of flight 
Sir Modred; he the nearest to the King, 
His nephew, ever like a subtle beast 
Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne. 
Ready to spring, waiting a chance: for this. 
He chill'd the popular praises of the King, 
With silent smiles of slow disparao-ement- 
And tamper'd with the lords of the White Horse, 



^86 G VINE VERE. 



Heathen, the brood by Hengist left; and sought 
To make disruption in the Table Round 
Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds 
Serviag- his traitorous end; and all liis aims 
Were sharpen'd by strong hate for Lancelot. 

For tiius it chanced one morn when all the court, 
Green-suited, but with plumes that niock'd the May, 
Had been, their wont, a-maying and return'd, 
That Modred still in green, all ear and eye, 
Climb'd to the high top of the Mrden wall 
To spy some secret scandal if he might, 
And saw the Queen, who sat betwixt her best 
Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court 
The wiliest and the worst; and more than this 
He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing by 
Spied where he couch'd, and as the gardener's hand 
Picks from the colewort a green caterpillar, 
So from the high wall and the flowering grove 
Of grasses Lancelot pluck'd him by the heel, 
And cast him as a worm upon the way; 
But when he knew the Prince tho' marr'd with dust, 
He, reverencing king's blood in a bad man. 
Made such excuses as he might, and these 
Full knightly without scorn; for in those days 
No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt in scorn; 
But, if a man were halt or hunch'd, in him 
By those whom God had matle full-limb'd and tall. 
Scorn was allow'd as part of his defect. 
And he was answer'd softlj' by the King 
And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp 
To raise the Prince, who rising twice or thiice 
Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, and went: 
But, ever after, the small violence done 
Rankled in him and ruffled all his heart, 
As the sharp wind that ruffles all day long 
A little bitter pool about a stone 
On the bare coast. 

But when Sir Lancelot told 
This matter to the Queen, at first she laugh'd 
Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty fall, 
Then shudder'd, as the village wife who cries 
"I shudder, some one stejis across my grave;" 



GUINEVERE. 681 



Then laugli'd again, but faintlier, for indeed 
Siie half-foresaw that he, the subtle beast, 
Would track her guilt until he found, and hor* 
Would be forevermore a name of scorn. 
Henceforward rarely could she front in Hall, 
Or elsewhere, Modred's narrow foxy face. 
Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent eve. 
Henceforward too, the Powers that tend the soul. 
To helji it from the death that cannot die. 
And save it even in extremes, began 
To vex and plague her. Many a time for hours. 
Beside the placid breathings of the King, 
In the dead night, grim faces came and went 
Before her, or a vague spiritual fear — 
Like to some doubtful noise of creaking doors. 
Heard by the watcher in a haunted house. 
That keeps the rust of murder on the walls- 
Held her awake; or if she slept, she dream'd 
An awful dream; for then she seem'd to stand 
On some vast plain before a setting sun. 
And from the sun there swiftly made at her 
A ghastly something, and its shadow flew 
Before her, till it touch'd her, and she turn'd — 
When lo! her own, that broadening from her feet, 
And blackening, swallow'd all the land, and in it 
Far cities burnt, and with a crv she woke. 
And all this trouble did not pass but grew ; 
Till ev'n the clear face of the guilL"k--s King, 
And trustful courtesies of household life, 
Became her bane; and at the last she said. 
" O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine own land, 
For if thou tarry we shall meet again, 
And, if we meet again some evil chance 
Will make the smouldering scandal break and blaze 
Before the people, and our lord the King." 
And Lancelot ever promised, but remain'd, 
^Vnd still they met and met. Again she said, 
" O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee hence,'" 
And then they were agreed upon a night 
(When the good King should not be there) to meet 
And jjart forever. Passion-pale they met 
And greeted: hands in hands, and eye to eye. 
Low on the border of her couch thev sat 
Stammering and staring; it was their last hour, 
A madness of farewells. And Modred brought 



688 GUINEVERE. 



His creatures to the basement of the tower 

For testiinony; and crying with full voice, 

" Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at last," aroused 

Lancelot, who rusliing outward lionlike 

Leapt on him, and hurl'd him headlong, and he fell 

Stunn'd, and his creatures took and bare him off 

And all was still: then she, "The end is come 

And I am shamed forever: " and he said, 

"Mine be the shame: mine was the sin; but rise, 

And fly to my strong castle overseas; 

There will I hide thee, till my life shall end. 

There hold thee with my life against the world." 

She answer'd, " Lancelot, wilt thou hold me so? 

Nay friend, for we have taken our farewells. 

Would God, that thou couldst hide me from myself 1 

Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and thou 

Unwedded: yet rise now, and let us fly, 

For I will draw me into sanctuary. 

And bide my doom." So Lancelot got her horse. 

Set her thereon, and mounted on his own. 

And then they rode to the divided way. 

There kiss'd, and parted weeping: for he past 

Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen, 

Back to his land; but she to Almesbury 

Fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald. 

And heard tiie Spirits of the waste and weald 

Moan as she fled, or thought she heard them moan: 

And in herself she moan'd, " Too late, too late! " 

Till in the cold and wind that foreruns the morn. 

A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying high, 

Croak'd, and she thought, " He spies a field of death; 

For now the heathen of the Northern Sea, 

Lured by the crimes and frailties of the court, 

Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the land." 

And when she came to Alcnesburv she spake 
There to tiie nuns, and said, " Mine enemies 
Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood, 
Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask 
Her name, to whom ye yield it, till her time 
To tell you:" and her beauty, grace, and power 
Wrought as a charm upon them, and they spared 
To ask it. 



GUINEVERE. 



683 



iA 



So the stately Queen abode 
For many a week, unknow.i, among- the nuns; 
Nor with them mix'c), nor told her name, nor sought, 
\Vrapt in her grief, for housel or for shrift, 
But communed only with the little maid, ' 
Who pleased her ^^■ith a babbling heedlessness 
Which often lured her from herself; but now, 
This night, a rumor wildly blown about 
Came that Sir Modred had usurp'd the reahii, 
And leagued him with the heathen, while ihe Kin- 
Was waging war on Lancelot: then she thoucrbt 
" With what a hate the people and the Kin- " 
Must hate me," and bow'd down upon her hands 
Silent, until the little maid, who brook'd 
No silence, brake it, uttering "Late! so late! 
What hour, I wonder, now?" and when she drew 
No answer, by and by began to hum 
An air the nuns had taught her; " Late, so 1 itc' " 
VVl,ich when she heard, the Queen look'd up, and said, 
"O maiden, if indeed you list to sing, 
Sing and unbind my heart that I may'weep." 
Whereat full willingly sang the little maid. ' 

" Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill! 
Late, late, so late! but we can enter still. 
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now. 

" No light had we: for that we do repent; 
And learning this, the bridegroom will relent. 
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now. 

" No light: so late! and dark and chill the night! 
O let us in, that we may find the light! 
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now. 

" Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet? 
O let us in, the' late, to kiss his feet! 
No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now." 

So sang the novice, while full passionately, 
Her head upon her hands, remembering 
Her thought when first she came, wept the sad Queen. 
Then said the little novice prattling to her: 



690 GUINEVERE. 



"O prav voii, noble ladv, weep no more: 
But let my words, the words of one so small, 
Who knowing nothing knows but to obey, 
And if I do not there is penance given — 
Comfort your sorrows; for they do not flow 
From evil done: right sui-e am I of that, 
Who see your tender grace and statelincss. 
But weigh your sorrows with our lord the King's, 
And weighing find them less; for gone is he 
To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot there, 
Round that strong castle where he holds the Queen; 
And Modred whom he left in charge of all, 
The traitor — Ah sweet lady, the King's grief 
For his own self, and his own Queen, and realm. 
Must needs be thrice as great as any of ours. 
For me I thank the saints I am not great. 
For if there ever come a grief to me 
I crj' my cry in silence, and have done: 
None knows it, and my tears have brought me good. 
But even were the griefs of little ones 
As great as those of great ones, yet this grief 
Is added to the griefs the great must bear, 
That howsoever much they may*desire 
Silence, they cannot weep behind a cloud: 
As even here they talk at Almesbury 
About the good King and his wicked Queen, 
And were I such a King with such a Queen, 
Well might I wish to veil her wickedness, 
But were I such a King, it could not be." 

Then to her own sad heart mutter'd the Queen, 
" Will the child kill sne with her innocent talk? " 
But openly she ansvver'd, " Mr.st not I, 
If this false traitor have displaced iiis lord, 
Grieve with the common grief of all the realm? " 

« Yea," said the maid, " this is all woman's gricf^ 
That she is woman, whose disloyal life 
Hath wrought confusion in the Table Round 
Which good King Arthur founrled, years ago, 
With signs and miracles and wonders, there 
At Camelot, ere the coming of the Queen." 



GUINEVERE. (591 



Then thoug-ht the Queen within herself again, 
•« Will the child kill me with her foolish prate?" 
But openly she spake and said to her, 
"O little maid, shut in bv nunnery walls, 
What canst thou know of Kings and Tables Round, 
Or what of signs and wonders, but the signs 
And simple miracles of thy nunnery? " 

To whom the little novice garrulously: 
" Yea, but I know : the land was full of signs 
And wonders ere the coming of the Queen. 
So said \wy father, and himself was knight 
Of the great Table — at the founding of it: 
And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, and he said 
That as he rode, an hour or maybe twain 
After the sunset, down the coast, he heard 
Strange music, and he paused and turning — there, ■ 
All down the lonely coast of Lyonnesse, 
Each with a beacon-star upon his head. 
And with a wild sea-light about his feet, 
He saw them — headland after headland flame 
Far on into the rich heart of the west : 
And in the light the white mermaiden swam, 
And strong man-breasted things stood from the sea. 
And sent a deep sea-voice thro' all the land, 
To which the little elves of chasm and cleft 
Made answer, sounding like a distant horn. 
So said m)- father — yea, and furthermore. 
Next morning, while he past the dim -lit woods, 
Himself beheld three spirits mad with joy 
Come dashing down on a tall wayside flower. 
That shook beneath them, as the thistle shakes 
When three gray linnets wrangle for the seed: 
And still at evenings on before his horse 
The flickering fairy-circle wheel'd and broke 
Fl3-ing, and link'd again, and wheel'd and broke 
Flying, for all the land was full of life. 
And when at last he came to Camelot, 
A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand 
Swung round the lighted lantern of the iiall; 
And in the hall itself was such a feast 
As never man had dream'd; for every knight 
Had whatsoever meat he long'd for served 
By hands unseen; and even as he said 




" Himself beheld three spirits mad with jov 
Come dashing down on a tall wayside flower?' " 



See pn§;e 6gi, 



(692) 



GUINEVERE. (393 



Down in the cellars menv bloated things 
Shoukler'd the spigot, straddling on the butts 
While the wine ran: so glad were spirits and men 
Before the comino of the sinful Queen." 

Then spake the Queen, and somewhat bitterlv. 
" M^ere they so glad? ill prophets were thev all, 
Spirits and men : could none of them foresee, 
Not even tliy wise father with his signs 
And wonders, what has fall'n upon the rea'm?" 

To whom the novice garrulously again : 
" Yea, one, a bard; of whom my father said, 
Full man}' a noble war-song had he sung, 
Ev'n in the presence of an enemy's fleet. 
Between the steep clift" and the coming wave; 
And many a mystic lay of life and death 
Had chanted on the smoky mountain-tops. 
When round him bent the spirits of the hills, 
With all their dewy hair blown back like flame: 
So said my father — and that night the baid 
Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang the King 
As wellnigh more than man, and rail'd at those 
Who call'd him the false son of Gorlois: 
For there was no man knew from whence he came; 
But after tempest, when the long wave broke 
All down the thundering shores of Bude and Bos, 
There caine a day as still as heaven, and then 
They found a naked child upon the sands 
Of dark Dundagil by the Cornish sea; 
And that was Arthur; and they foster'd him 
Till he by miracle was approven king: 
And that his grave should be a myster}' 
From all men, like his birth; and could he find 
A woman in her womanhood as great 
As he was in his manhood, then, he sang. 
The twain together well might change the world. 
But even in the middle of his song- 
He falter'd, and his hand fell from the harp. 
And pale he turn'tl, and reel'd, and would have fall'n. 
But that they stay'd him up; nor would lie tell 
His vision; but what doubt that he foresaw 
This evil work of Lancelot and the Queen?" 



'i^^ GUINEVERE. 



Then thought the Queen, " Lo! thev have set heron, 
Our simple seeming Ahhess and her nims, 
To play upon me," and bow'd her head nor spake. 
Whereat the novice crying, with clasp'd hands. 
Shame on her own garrulitj' garrulouslv, 
Said the good nuns would clieck her gadding tongue 
Full often, " And, sweet lady, if I seem 
To vex an ear too sad lo listen to me. 
Unmannerly, with prattling and with tales 
Which my good father told me, check me too: 
Nor let me shame my father's memory, one 
Of noblest manners, tho' himself would say 
Sir Lancelot had the noblest; and he died, 
Kill'd in a tilt, come next, five summers back, 
And left me; but of others who remain. 
And of the two first-famed for courtesy — 
And pray you check me if I ask amiss — 
But pray you, which had noblest, while vou moyed 
Among them, Lancelot or our lord the King?" 

Then the pale Queen look'd up and answered her, 
" Sir Lancelot, as became a noble knight, 
Was gracious to all ladies, and the same 
In open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and these two 
Were the most nobly-manner'd men of all; 
For manners arc not idle, but the fruit 
Of loyal nature, and of noble mind." 

" Yea," said the maid, "be manners such fair fruit? 
Then Lancelot's needs must be a thousand fold 
Less noble, being, as all rumor runs. 
The most disloyal friend in all the world." 

To which a mournful answer m.ade the Queen, 
"O closed about b}' narrowing nunneiv-walls. 
What knowest thou of the world, and all its lights 
And shadows, all the wealtli and all the woe? 
If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight, 
Were for one hour less noble than himself. 
Pray for him that he scape the doom of fire, 
And weep for her, who drew him to his doom." 



GUINEVERE. 695 



" Yea," sakl the little novice, " I pray for both; 
But I should all as soon believe that his. 
Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the King's, 
As I could think, sweet ladv, yours would be 
Such as they are, were you the sinful Queen." 

So she, like many another babbler, hurt 
Whom she would soothe, and harm'd where she would heal; 
For liere a sudden flush of wrathful heat 
Fired all the pale face of the Queen, who cried, 
" Such as thou art be never maiden more 
Forever! thou their tool, set on to plague 
And play upon, and harry me, pretty spy 
And traitress." When that storm of anger brake 
From Guinevere, aghast the maiden rose, 
White as her veil, and stood before the Queen 
As tremulously as foam upon the beach 
Stands in a wind, ready to break and fly, 
And when the Queen had added "Get thee hence!" 
Fled frighted. Then that other left alone 
Sigh'd, and began to gather heart again, 
Saying in herself, " The simple, fearful child 
Meant nothing, but my own too-fearful guilt 
Simpler than an^- child, betrays itself. 
But help me, heaven, for surely I repent. 
For what is true repentance but in thought — 
Not e'en in inmost thought to think again 
The sins that made the past so pleasant to us: 
And I have sworn never to see him more. 
To see him more." 



And e'en in saying this, 
Her memory from old habit of the mind 
Went slipping back upon the golden days 
In whicli she saw him first, when Lancelot came. 
Reputed the best knight and goodliest man, 
Ambassador, to lead her to his lord 
Arthur, and led her forth, and f;ir ahead 
Of his and her retinue moving, they, 
R.apt in sweet thought, or lively, all on love 
And sport and tilts and pleasure, (for the time 
Was may time, and as yet no sin was dream'd,) 
Rode under groves that look'd a paradise 
Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth 



696 GUINEVERE. 



That seem'd the heavens upbreaking thro' th? earth, 

And on from hill to hill, and every day 

Beheld at noon in some delicious dale 

The silk pavilions of King Arthur raised 

For brief repast or afternoon repose 

By couriers gone before; and on again, 

Till yet once more ere set of sun they saw 

The Dragon of the great Pendragonship, 

That crovvn'd the state pavilion of the King, 

Blaze by the lushing brook or silent well. 

But when the Queen immersed in such a trance. 
And moving thro' the past unconsciously, 
Came to that point, when first she saw the King 
Ride toward her from the city, sigh'd to find 
Her journey done, glanced at him, thought him cold. 
High, self-contain'd, and passionless, not like him, 
*' Not like my Lancelot " — while she brooded thus 
And grew half-guilty in her thoughts again. 
There rode an armed warrior to the doors. 
A murmuring whisper thro' the nunnery ran. 
Then on a sudden a cry, " The King." She sat 
Stiff-stricken, listening; but when armed feet 
Thro' the long gallery from the outer doors 
Rang coming, prone from off her seat she fell, 
And grovell'd with her face against the floor: 
There with lier milkwhite arms and shadowy hair 
She made her face a darkness from the King: 
And in the darkness heard his armed feet 
Pause by her; then came silence, then a voice, 
Monotonous and hollow like a Ghost's 
Denouncing judgment, but tho' changed the King's. 

"Liest thou liere so low, the child of one 
1 honor'd, happy, dead before thy shame? 
Well is it that no child is born of thee. 
The children born of thee are sword and tire. 
Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws. 
The craft of kindred and the Godless hosts 
Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern Sea. 
Whom 1, while vet Sir Lancelot, my right arm. 
The mightiest of my knights, abode with me. 
Have everywhere about this land of Christ 
Li twelve great battles ruining overthrown. 



GUINEVERE. OQ"; 



And knovvest thou now fiom whence I come — from him, 

From waging bitter war with liim: and he, 

That did not shun to smite me in worse way, 

Had yet that grace of courtesy in him left. 

He spared to Hft Ills liand against the King 

Who made him knight: but many a l<nlght was slain; 

And many more, and all his kith and kin 

Clave to him, and abode in his own land. 

And many more when Modred raised revolt, 

Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave 

To Modred, and a remnant stays with me. 

And of this remnant will I leave a part, 

True men who love me still, for whom I live. 

To guard thee in the wild hour coming on, 

Lest but a hair of this low head be harm'd. 

Fear not: thou shalt be guarded till my death. 

Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies 

Have err'd not, that I march to meet my doom. 

Thou hast not made my life so sweet to me. 

That I the King should greatly care to live; 

For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life. 

Bear with me for the last time while I show, 

Ev'n for thy sake, the sin which thou hast sinn'd. 

For when the Roman left us, and their lavv 

Relax'd its hold upon us, and the ways 

Were fill'd with rapine, here and there a deed 

Of prowess done redress'd a random wrong. 

But I was first of all the kings who drew 

The knighthood-errant of this realm and all 

The realms together under me, their Head, 

In that fair order of m^' Table Round, 

A glorious company, the flower of men. 

To serve as model for the mighty world, 

And he the fair 'beginning of a time. 

I made them lav their hands in mine and swear 

To leverence the King, as if he were 

Their conscience, and their conscience as their King, 

To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, 

To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, 

To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it. 

To lead sweet lives in purest chastity. 

To love one maiden only, cleave to her. 

And worship her by years of noble deeds, 

Until they won her; for indeed I knew 

Of no more subtle master under heaven 



69H GUINEVERE. 



Than is the maiden passion for a maid, 

Not only to keep down the base in man, 

But teach high thouglit and amiable words 

And courtliness, and the desire of fame, 

And love of truth, and ail that makes a man. 

And all this throve until I wedded thee! 

Believing " lo mine helpmate, one to feel 

My purpose and rejoicing in my jO}'." 

Then came thy shameful sin with Lancelot; 

Then came the sin of Tristram and Isolt; 

Then others, following these my mightiest knights, 

And drawing foul ensample from fair names, 

Sinn'd also, till the loathsome opposite 

Of all my heart had destined did obtain. 

And all thro' thee! so that this life of mine 

I guard as God's high gift from scathe and wrong, 

Not greatly care to lose; but rather think 

How sad it were for Arthur, should he live. 

To sit once more within his lonely hall. 

And miss the wonted number of my knights, 

And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds 

As in the golden days before thy sin. 

For which of us, who might be left, could speak 

Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at thee? 

And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk 

Thy shadow still would glide from room to room. 

And I should evermore be vext with thee 

In hanging robe or vacant ornament. 

Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair. 

For think not, tho' thou wouldst not love thy Lord, 

Thy lord has wholly lost his love for thee. 

I am not made of so slight elements. 

Yet must I leave thee, \voman, to thy shame. 

I hold that man the worst of public foes 

Wlio either for his own or chiklrcn's sake, 

To save his blood from scandal, lets the wife 

Whom he knows false, abide and rule the house: 

For being tliro' his cowardice allow'd / 

Her station, taken everywheie for pure, 

She like a new disease, unknown to men. 

Creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd. 

Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and saps 

The fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse 

With devil's leaps, and poisons half the young. 

Worst of the worst were that man he that reigns! 



/ 



G UINE VERB. 699 



Better the King's waste hearth and achhig heart 
Than thou reseated in thy place of light, 
The mockery of my people, and their bane." 

He paused, and in tlie pause she crept an inch 
Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet. 
Far off a solitary trumpet blew. 
Then waiting b}' the doors the war-horse neigh'd 
As at a friend's voice, and he spake again: 

" Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes, 
I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, 
I, whose vast pity almost makes me die 
To see thee, laying there thy golden head, 
My pride in happier summers,at my feet. 
The wrath which forced my thoughts on that fierce law, 
The doom of treason and the flaming death, 
(When first I learnt thee hidden here) is past. 
The pang — which while I weigh'd thy heart with one 
Too wholly true to dream luitruth in thee, 
Made my tears burn — is also past, in part. 
And all is past, the sin is sinn'd, and I, 
Lo! I foi'give thee, as Eternal God 
Forgives: do thou for thine own soul the rest. 
But how to take last leave of all I loved.' 

golden hair, with which I used to play 
Not knowing! O imperial-moulded form, 
And beauty such as never woman wore, 
Until it came a kingdom's curse with thee — 

1 cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine. 

But Lancelot's: nay, thev never were the King's. 

I cannot take thy hand; that too is flesh. 

And in the flesh thou hast sinn'd; and mine own flesh. 

Here looking down on thine own polluted, cries 

'I loathe thee;' yet not less, O Guinevere, 

For I \vas ever virgin save for thee. 

My love thro' flesh hath wrought into mv life 

So far, that m}' doom is, I love thee. still. 

Let no man dream but that I love thee still. 

Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul. 

And so thou lean on our fair father Christ, 

Hereafter in that world where all are pure 

We two mav meet before high God, and thou 

Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know 



700 



GUtNEVERL. 



I am thine husbiiiul — not a smaller soul, 

Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that, 

I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence. 

Thro' the thick night I hear the trumpet blow : 

They summon me their King to lead mine hosts 

Far down to that great battle in the west. 

Where I must strike against my sister's son. 

Leagued with the lords of the White Horse and knights 

Once mine, and strike him dead, and meet myself 

Death, or I know not what mysterious doom. 

And thou remaining here wilt learn the event; 

But hither shall I never come again. 

Never lie by thy sitle, s: e thee no more, 

Farewell!" 

And while she grovell'd at his feet. 
She felt the King's breath wander o'er hci- neck, 
And, in the darkness o'er her fallen head. 
Perceived the waving of his hands that blest. 

Then, listening till those armed steps were gone, 
Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish found 
The casement: " Peradventiuc," so she thought, 
" If I might see his face, and not be seen." 
And lo, he sat on horseback at the door! 
And near him the sad nuns witii each a light 
Stood, and he gave them charge about the Queen, 
To guard and foster her forevermore. 
And while he spake to these his helm was Imver'd, 
To which for crest the golden dragon clung 
Of Britain ; so she did not see the face. 
Which then was as an angel's, but she saw, 
Wet with the mists and smitten by the lights, 
The Dragon of the great Pendrawonshin 
Blaze, making all the night a steam of fire. 
And even then he turn'd; and more ant! more 
The moony vapor rolling round the King, 
Who seem'd the phantom of a Giant in it, 
Enwound him fold by fold, and made him gray 
And grayer, till himself became as mist 
Before her, moving ghostlike to his doom. 

Then she stretch'd out her arms and cried aloud, 
«0 Arthur!" there her voice brake suddenly, 



GUIXEVERE. 701 



Then — as a stream that spouting from a clifF ' 
Fills in mid-air, hut gathering at the base 

Re-malves itself, ami flashes down tlie vale 

Went on in passionate utterance. 

" Gone — my lord ! 

Gone thro' my sin to slay and to be slain! 

And he forgave me, and I could not speak. 

Farewell? I should have answer'd his farewell. 

His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord tlie King, 

My own true lord! how dare I call him mine? 

The shadow of another cleaves to me, 

And makes me one pollution: he, the King, 

Call'd me polluted: shall I kill myself? 

What help in that? I cannot kill my sin, 

If soul be soul; nor can I kill my shame; 

No, nor by living can I live it down. 

The days will grow to weeks^ the weeks to months, 

The months will add themselves and make the years. 

The years will roll into the centuries, 

And mine will ever be a name of scorn. 

I must not dwell on that defeat of fame. 

Let the world be; that is but of the world. 

What else? what hope? I think there was a hope. 

Except he mock'd me when he spake of hope; 

His liope he call'd it; but he never mocks, 

For mockery is the fume of little hearts 

And blessed be the King, who hath forgiven 

My wickedness to him, and left me hope 

That in mine own heart I can live down sin 

And be his mate hereafter in the heavens 

Before high God. Ah great and gentle lord. 

Who wast, as is the conscience of a saint 

Among his warring senses, to thy knights — 

To whom my false voluptuous pride, that took 

Full easily all impressions from below, 

Would not look up, or half-despised the height 

To whicli I would not or I could not climb — 

I tiiought I could not breathe in that fine air 

That pure severity of perfect light — 

I wanted warmth and color \\fliich I found 

In Lancelot — now I see thee what thou art, 

Thou ait the highest and inost human too. 

Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there none 



702 3UINEVERE. 



Will tell the King; I love him tho' so late? 
Now — ere he goes to the great battle? none: 
Myself must tell him in that purer life, 
But now it were too daring. Ah my God, 
What might I not have made of thy fair world, 
Had I but loved thy highest creature here? 
It was mv duty to have loved the highest: 
It surely was my profit had I known: 
It would have been m\' pleasure had I seen. 
We needs must love the highest when we see it, 
Not Lancelot, nor another." 

Here her hand 
Grasp'd, made her veil her eves: she lookVi and saw 
The novice, weeping, suppliant, and said to her, 
"Yea, little maid, for am /not forgiven?" 
Then glancing up beheld the holv nuns 
All round her, weeping; and her heart was loosed 
Within her, and she wept with these and said: 

" Ye know me then, that wicked one, who broke 
The vast design and purpose of the King. 

shut me round with narrowing nunnery-walls, 
Meek maidens, from the voices crying ' Shame.' 

1 must not scorn myself; he loves me still. 
Let no one dream but that he loves me still. 
So let me, if you do not shudder at me 
Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you: 
Wear black and white, and be a nun like you; 
Fast with vour fasts, not feasting with vour feasts; 
Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys, 
But not rejoicing; mingle with your rites; 

Pray and be prayed for; lie before your shrines; 

Do each low office of vour holy house; 

Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole 

To poor sick people, richer in his eyes 

Who ransom'd us, and baler too than I; 

And treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own; 

And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer 

The sombre close of that voluptuous day. 

Which wrought the ruin of my lord the King." 

She said: they took her to themselves; and she 
Still hoping, fearing " Is it yet too late?" 



GUINEVERE. 



703 



Dwelt with them, till in time their Abbess died. 
Then she, for her good deeds and her pine life. 
And for the power of ministration in her, 
And likewise for the high rank she had borne. 
Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess lived 
For three brief years, and there, an Abbess, past 
To where beyond these voices there is peace. 




MJ0^ 



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'■'iS«.vn 






^^ A 



A^ A^ ^ A<g 




V^sr-9^;i-t3^V"^'7'^V^'^'^v"^Y 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



707 





ENOCH ARDEN. 

|ONG lines of clifT breaking have left a chasm; 
And in the chasm are foam and j'ellovv sands; 
BcN^ond, red roofs about a narrow wharf 
In cluster; then a moulder'd church; an'd higher 
A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill; 
x\nd high in heaven behind it a gray down 
With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood, 
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes 
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. 

Here on this beach a hundred years ago, 
Three cliildren of three houses, Annie Lee, 
The prettiest little damsel in the port, 
And Philip Ray, the miller's only son, 
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad 
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd 
Among the waste and lumber of the shore. 
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets, 
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats up-drawn; 
And built their castles of dissolving sand 
To watch them overflow'd, or following up 
And flving the white breaker, daily left 
The little footprint daily wash'd away. 



A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliflT: 
In this the children play'd at keeping house. 
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, 
While Annie still was mistress; but at times 
Enoch would hold possession for a week: 
" This is my house and this my little wife." 
"Mine too," said Philip, "turn and turn about:' 
When, if they quarrel'd, Enoch stronger-made 
Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears. 
Shriek out, " I hate you, Enoch," and at this 
The little wife would weep for company, 
And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, 
And say she would be little wife to both. 



(08 ENOCH ARDEN. 



But when the dawn of rosy childhooil past, 
And the new warmth of life's ascending sun 
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart 
On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love. 
But Philip loved in silence; and the girl 
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him; 
But she loved Enoch; tho' she knew it not. 
And would if ask'd, deny it. Enoch set 
A purpose evermore before his eyes, 
To hoard all savings to the uttermost, 
To purchase his own boat, and make a home 
For Annie: and so prosper'd that at last 
A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 
A carefuler in peril, did not breathe 
For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast 
Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year 
On board a merciiantman, and made himself 
Full sailor; and he thrice hail pluck'd a life 
From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas: 
And all men look'd upon him favorably: 
And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth Mav, 
He purchased his own boat, and made a lioinc 
For Annie, neat and nest-like, half-way up 
The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill. 

Then, on a golden autumn eventide, 
The j'ounger people making holidaj', 
With bag and saclc and basket, great and small. 
Went nutting to the hazels, Philip stay\l 
(His father lying sick and needing him) 
An hour behind; but as he climb'd the hill. 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, 
Enoch and Annie, sitting hand in hand, 
His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face 
All-kindled by a still and sacred fire, 
That binned as on' an altar. Philip look'd, 
And in their eyes and faces read his doom: 
Then, as their faces drew together, groaned 
And slipt aside, and like a wounded life 
Crept down into the hollows of the wood ; 
There, while the rest were loudly merry-making, 
Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past 
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 709 



So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, , 
And merrily ran the years, seven happy years. 
Seven liappy years of health and competence. 
And mutual love and honorable toil; 
With children; first a daugiiter. In him woke. 
With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish 
To save all earnings to the uttermost, 
And give his child a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or hers; a wish renew'd. 
When two years attei- came a boy to be 
The rosy idol of her solitudes, 
While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas. 
Or often journeying landward; for in truth 
Enoch's white hoise, and Enoch's ocean-spoil 
In ocean-sinelling osier, and his face, 
Rough-redden'd with a thousand w^inter gales. 
Not only to the market-cross were known, 
But in the leafy lanes behind the down, 
Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp, 
And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall, 
Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering. 

Then came a change, as all things human change. 
Ten miles to northward of the narrow port 
Open'd a larger haven: thither used 
Enoch at times to go by land or sea; 
And once when there, and clambering on a mast 
In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell: 
A limb was broken when they lifted him; 
And while he lay recovering there, his wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one: 
Another liand crept too across his trade 
Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell, 
Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man. 
Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. 
He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night, 
To see his children leading evermore 
Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, 
And iier, he loved, a beggar: then he pray'd 
" Save them from this, whatever comes to me." 
And wliile he pray'd, the master of that ship 
Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, 
Came, for he knew the man and valued him. 
Reporting of his vessel China-bound, 



~iO ENOCH ARDEN. 



And wanting yet a boatswain. Would lie go? 
There yet were many weeks before she sail'd, 
Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have the place? 
And Enoch all at once assented to it, 
Rejoicing at tliat answer to his prayer. 



So now that shadow of mischance appear'd 
No graver than as when some little cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 
And isles a light in the offing: yet the wife — 
When he was gone — the children^what to do? 
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans 
To sell the boat — and yet he loved her well — 
How many a rough sea had he weather'd in her! 
He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse — 
And yet to sell her — then with what she brought 
Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth in trade 
With all that seamen needed or their wives — 
So might she keep the house while he was gone. 
Should he not trade himself out yonder? go 
This voyage more than once? yea, twice or thrice - 
As oft as needed — last, returning rich. 
Become the master of a larger craft. 
With tuller profits lead an easier life. 
Have all his pretty young ones educated, 
And pass his days in peace among his own. 

Thus Enoch in his heart determined all: 
Then moving homeward came on Annie pale. 
Nursing the sickly babe, her latest born. 
Forward she started with a happy cr}', 
And laid the feeble infant in his arms; 
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs, 
Appraised his weight, and fondled fatherlike. 
But had no heart to break his purposes 
To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. 

Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt 
Her finger, Annie fought against his will : 
Yet not with brawling opposition she. 
But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 
Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd 
^Sure that all evil would come out of it'> 



ENOCH ARDEN. 7.11 



Besought him, supplicating, if he cared 
For her or his dear children, not to go. 
He not for. his own self caring but her, 
Her and her children, let her plead in vain; 
So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'. 

For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend, 
Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand 
To fit their little streetward sitting-room 
With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. 
So all day long till Enoch's last at home, 
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe, 
Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear 
Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and rang, 
Till this was ended, and his careful hand, — 
The space was narrow, — having order'd all 
Almost as neat and close as Nature packs 
Her blossom or her seedling, paused; and he, 
Who needs would work for Annie to the last. 
Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. 

And Enoch faced this morning of farewell 
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears, 
Save as his Annie's, were a laughter to him. 
Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 
Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery 
Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God, 
Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes 
Whatever came to him : and then he said, 
" Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, 
For I'll be back, my gill, before you know it." 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, "and he, 
This pretty, puny, weaklv little one, — 
Nay — for I love him all the better for it — 
God bless him, lie shall sit upon my knees 
And I will tell him tales of foreign parts. 
And make him merry, when I come home again. 
Come Annie, come, cheer up before I go." 

Him running on thus hopefully she heard. 
And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'd 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



The current of his talk to graver things 

In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing 

On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, 

Heard and not heard him; as the village girl, 

Who sets her pitcher uniierneath the spring. 

Musing on him that used to fill it for her, 

Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. 

At length she spoke, " O Enoch, you are wise; 
And yet for all your wisdom well know I 
That I shall look upon your face no more." 

"Well then," said Enoch, "I shall look on yours. 
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here 
(He named the day) get you a seaman's glass, 
Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears." 

But when the last of those last moments came, 
" Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted, 
Look to the babes, and till I come again, 
Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. 
And fear no more for me; or if you fear 
Cast all your cares on God ; that anchor holds. 
Is He not yonder in those uttermost 
Parts of the morning? if I flee to these 
Can I go from Him? and the sea is His, 
The sea is His: He made it." 

Enoch rose. 
Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife. 
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulness, 
When Annie would have raised him Enoch said, 
" Wake him not; let him sleep; how should the child 
Remember this? " and kiss'd liim in his cot. 
But Annie from her baby's forehead dipt 
A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept 
Thro' all his future; but now hastily caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way. 

She when the day, that Enoch mention'd, came, 
Borrowed a glass, but all in vain : perhaps 



ENOCH ARDEN. 713 



She could not fix the glass to suit her eye; 
Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous; 
She saw him not: and while he stood on deck 
Waving, the moment and the vessel past. 

Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail 
vShe watched it, and departed weeping for him; 
Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his grave, 
Set her sad will no less to chime with his. 
But throve not in her trade, not 'oeing bred 
To barter, nor compensating the want 
By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, 
Nor asking overmuch and taking less. 
And still foreboding " What would Enoch say?" 
For more than once, in days of difficulty 
And pressure, had she sold her wares for less 
Than what she gave in buying what she sold: 
She fail'd, and sadden'd knowing it; and thus, 
Expectant of that news which never came, 
Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance. 
And lived a life of silent melancholy. 

Now the third child was sickly born and grew 
Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it 
With all a mother's care: nevertheless. 
Whether her business often called her from it, 
Or thro' the want of what is needed most, 
Or means to pay the voice who best could tell 
What most it needed — howso'er it was. 
After a lingering, — ere she was aware, — 
Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, 
The little innocent soul flitted away. 

In that same week when Annie buried it, 
Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace 
(Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her), 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. 
" Surely," said Philip, " I may see her now, 
May be some little comfort;" therefore went, 
Past thro' the solitary room in front, 
Paused for a moment at an inner door. 
Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, 
Enter'd ; but Annie, seated with her grief, 



714: 



E.YOCH ARDEN. 




Fresh from the burial of her little one, 
Cared not to look on any human face, 
But turn'd her own toward tlie wall and wept. 
Then Philip standing up said falteringly, 
" Annie, I came to ask a fiivor of you." 

He spoke; the passion in her moanVl reply, 
" Favor from one so sad and so forlorn 
As I am!" half abash'd him; yet unaskVl, 
His bashfulness and tenderness at war, 
He sits, himself beside her, saying to her: 



" I came to speak to you of what he wish'd, 
Enoch, your husband : I have ever said 
You chose the best among us — a strong man : 
For where he fixt his heart he set his hand 



ENOCH ARDEN. 715 



To do the thing he willed, and bore it thro'. 

And wherefore did he go this weary way, 

And leave you lonely ? not to see the world — 

For pleasure? — nay, but for the wherewithal 

To give his babes a better bringing-up 

Than his had been, or yours : that was his wish. 

And if he comes again, vext will he be 

To find the precious morning hours were lost. 

And it would vex him even in his grave, 

If he could know his babes were running wild 

Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now — 

Have we not known each other all our lives.'' 

I do beseech you by the love you bear 

Him and his children not to saj/ me nay — 

For, if jou will, when Enoch comes again 

Why then he shall repay me — if you will, 

Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 

Now let me put the boy and girl to school : 

This is the fovor I came to ask." 

Then Annie with her brows against the wall 
Answer'd, " I cannot look you in the face, 
I seem so foolish and so broken down; 
When you came in my sorrow broke me down; 
And now I think your kindness breaks me down; 
But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me; 
He will repay you: money can be repaid; 
Not kindness such as yours." 

And Philip ask'd 
" Then you will let me, Annie?" 

Then she turn'd. 
She rose and fixt her swimming eyes upon him, 
And dwelt a moment on his kindly face, 
Then calling down a blessing on his head 
Caught at his hand and wrung it passionately, 
And past into the little garth beyond. 
So lifted up in spirit he moved awaj'. 

Then Philip put the boy and girl to school. 
And bought them needful books, and every way, 
Like one who does his duty by his own, 



716 EXOCH ARDEX. 



Made himself theirs; and tho' for Annie's sake, 
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, 
He oft denied his heart his dearest wish, 
And seldom crossed the threshold, yet he sent 
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit, 
The late and earlv roses from his wall. 
Or conies from the down, and now and then, 
With some pretext of fineness in the meal 
To save the offence of charitable, flour 
From his tall mill that whistled on the v/aste. 

But Philip did not fitthom Annie's mind: 
Scarce could the woman when he came upon her, 
Out of full heart and boundless gratitude 
Light on a broken word to thank him with. 
But Philip was her children's all-in-all; 
From distant corners of the street they ran 
To greet his hearty welcome heartily; 
Lords of his house and of his mill were the}-; 
Worried his passive ear with pctt\' wrongs 
Or pleasures, hung upon him, plav'd with him 
And called him Father Philip. Philip gained 
As Enoch lost; for Enoch seemed to them 
Uncertain as a vision or a dream. 
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 
Down at the far end of an avenue. 
Going ve know not where; and so ten years, 
Since Enocii left his hearth and native land. 
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came. 

It chanced one evening Annie's children lons'd 
To go with others, nutting to the wood, 
And Annie would go with them ; then they begg'd 
For Father Philip (as they call'd him) too: 
Him like the working bee in blossom dust, 
Blanch'd with his mill, they found; and saving to him, 
" Come with us Father Philip" he denied; 
But when the children pluck'd at him to go. 
He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish. 
For was not Annie with them? and they went. 

But atter scaling half the weary down, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, all her force 



EXOCH AKDEX. 



ni 



Fail'd her; and sighing, " Let me rest," she s:iid : 
So Philip rested with her well content: 
While :iil tlie younger ones with jubilant erics 
Broke from their elders, and tumultuoush 
Down thro' the v/hitening liazels made a pluncre 
To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke 
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear awa\- 
Their tavvnj' clusters, crying to each other, 
And calling, here and there, about the wood. 




But Philip sitting at her side forgot 
Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour 
Here in this wood, when like a wounded life 
He crept into the shadow : at last he said. 
Lifting his honest forehead, " Listen, Annie, 
How merry they are down yonder in the wood." 
" Tired, Annie?" for she did not speak a word. 
" Tired?" but her face had fall'n upon her hands; 
At which, as with a kind of anger in him, 
" The ship was lost," he said, " the ship was lost! 
No more of that! Why should you kill yourself 
And make them orphans quite?" and Annie said, 



718 ENOCH ARDEN. 



"I thought not of it: but — I know not why^ 
Their voices make me feel so solitaiy." 



Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. 
"Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, 
And it has been upon my mind so long. 
That tho' I know not when it first came there, 
I know that it will out at last. O Annie, 
It is beyond all hope, against all chance. 
That he who left you ten long years ago' 
Should still be living; well then-^let me speak: 
I grieve to see you poor and wanting help 
I cannot help you as 1 wish to do 
Unless — they say that women are so quick — 
Perhaps you know what I would have 3'ou know^ 
I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove 
A father to your children: I do think 
They love me as a father: I am sure 
That I love them as if they were mine own; 
And I believe, if you were fast my wife. 
That after all these sad uncertain years. 
We might be still as happy as God grants 
To any of his creatures. Think upon it: 
For 1 am well-to-do — no kin, no care. 
No burthen, save my care for you and yours: 
And we have known each other all our lives. 
And I have loved you longer than vou know," 

Then answer'd Annie; tenderly she spoke: 
" You have been as God's good angel in our house. 
God bless you for it, God reward you for it, 
Philip, with something happier than myself. 
Can one love twice? can you be ever loved 
As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?" 
" I am content," he answer'd, " to be loved 
A little after Enoch." " O," she cried. 
Scared as it were, "dear Philip, wait a while: 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not come — 
Yet wait a year, a j'ear is not so long: 
Surely I shall be wiser in a year: 

wait a little!" Philip sadly said, 
"Annie, as I have waited all my life 

1 v/ell may wait a little." " Nay," she cried, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 719 



I am bound: you have my promise — in a year: 
Will you not bide your year as I bide mine? " 
And Philip ansvvei'd, " I will bide my year." 

Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day 
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead; 
Then fearing night and chill for Annie, rose 
And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood. 
Up came the children laden with their spoil; 
Then all descended to the port, and there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave his hand, 
Saying gently, " Annie, when I spoke to you. 
That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong, 
I am always bound to you, but you are free." 
Then Annie weeping answer'd " I am bound." 

She spoke; and in one moment as it were. 
While yet she went about her household ways, 
Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words. 
That he had loved her longer than she knew. 
That autumn into autumn flashed again. 
And there he stood once more before her face, 
Claiming her promise. " Is it a year?" she ask'd. 
" Yes, if the nuts," he said, « be ripe again : 
Come out and see." But she — she put him ofl^— 
So much to look to — such a change — a month — - 
Give her a month — she knew that she was bound — 
A month — no more. Then Philip with his eyes 
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice 
Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, 
" Take your own time, Annie, take your own time." 
And Annie could have wept for pity of him; 
And yet she held him on delayingly 
With many a scarce-believable excuse, 
Tr\ing his truth and his long sufferance 
Till half-another year had slipt away. 

By this the lazy gossips of tile port. 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost, 
Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 
Some thought that Philip did hut trifle with iier; 
Some that she but held off to draw him on; 



720 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



And othtrs laughed at her and Philip too. 
As simple folk that knew not their own minds; 
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 
Would hint at worse in either. Her own son 
Was silent, tho' he often look'd his wish ; 
But evermore the daughter prest upon her 
To wed the man so dear to all of them 
And lift the household out of poverty; 
And Philip's rosy face contracting grew 
Careworn and wan ; and all these things fell on h;r 
Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it chanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly 
Pray'd for a sign "my Enoch is he gone?" 
Then compass'd round by the blind wall of night 
Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart, 
Started from bed, and struck herself a light, 
Then desperate!)' seized the holy Book, 
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, 
Suddenly put her finger on the text, 
" Under a palmtree." That was nothing to her: 
No meaning there: she cl(jsed the book and slept: 
When lo! her Enoch sitting on a heiaht 
Under a palmtree, over him the Sun: 
«' He is gone," she thought, " he is happy, he is singing 
Hosanna in the highest: yonder shines 
The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms 
Whereof the happy people strewing cried 
'Hosanna in the highest! ' " Here she woke. 
Resolved, sent for him and said wildlv to him 
" There is no reason why we should not wed." 
" Then for God's sake," he answer'd, "both our sakes. 
So you will wed me, let it be at once." 

So these were wed and merrily rang the bells. 
Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. 
But never merrily beat Annie's heart. 
A footstep seemed to fall beside her path. 
She knew not whence; a whisper on her ear, 
She knew not what: nor loved she to be left 
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



721 



What ailed her then, that ere she entered, often 
Her hand dwelt lingenngly on the latch, 
Fearing to enter: Philip thought he knew: 
Such doubts and fears were common to her state. 
Being with child : but when her child was born, 
Then her new child was as herself renew'd, 
Then the new mother came about her heart, 
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all, 
And that mysterious instinct wholly died. 





And where was Enoch? Prospeiously sail'd 
The ship " Good Fortune," tho' at setting forth 
The Biscay, roughly riding eastward, shook 
And almost overwhelmVI her, yet uinext 
She slipt across the summer of rhe world. 
Then after a long tumble about the Cape 
And frequent interchange of foul and fair. 
She passing thro' the summer world again, 
The breath of Heaven came coniinually 
And sent her sweetly by the golden isles, 
Till silent in her oriental haven. 



46 



There Enoch traded for himself, and bouo-ht 
Quaint monsters for the maiket of those times, 
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Less lucky her home-voyage: at first indeed 
Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day, 
Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure-head 
Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows: 
Then followed calms, and then winds variable, 
Then baffling, a long course of them; and last 
Storm, such as di-ove her under moonless heavens 
Till hard upon the cry of " breakers " came 
The crash of ruin, and the loss of all 
But Enoch and two others. Half the night, 
Buov'd upon floating tackle and broken spars, 
These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn 
Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 

No want was there of human sustenance. 
Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots; 
Nor save for pity was it hard to take 
The helpless life so wild that it was tame. 
There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge 
They built,_ancl thatched with leaves of palm, a hut, 
Half hut half native cavern. So the three. 
Set in this Eden of all plenteousness. 
Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. 

For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy, 
Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck. 
Lay lingering out a five-years' death-in-life. 
They could not leave him. After he was gone, 
The two remaining found a fallen stem ; 
And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself, 
Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, feil 
Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. 
In those two deaths he read God's warning " wait.'' 

The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns 
And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven. 
The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes. 
The lightning flash of insect and of bird, 
The lustre of the long convolvuluses 
That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran 
Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows 
And glories of the broad belt of the world. 
All these he saw: but what he fain had seen 



ENOCH ARDEN. 723 



He could not see, the kindly human face, 

Nor ever heard a kindly voice, but heard 

The mvriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fow!, 

The league-long roller thundering on the reef. 

The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd 

And blossomed in the zenith, or the sweep 

Of some precipitous ri\ulet to the wave, 

As down the shore he ranged, or all day lung 

Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 

A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail : 

No sail from day to day, but every day 

The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 

Among the palms and ferns and precipices ; 

The blaze upon the waters to the east; 

The blaze upon his island overhead; 

The blaze upon the waters to the west; 

Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven, 

The,hollovver-bellowing ocean, and again 

The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no sail. 

There often as he watch'd or seem'd to watch, 
So still, the golden lizard on him paused, 
A phantom made of many phantoms moved 
Before him haunting him, or he himself 
Moved haunting people, things and places, known 
Far in a darker isle beyond the line; 
The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house, 
The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes, 
Tiie peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall, 
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill 
November dawns and dewy-glooming downs, 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, 
And the low moan of leaden-color'd seas. 

Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, 
Tho' faintlv, merrily — far and for away — 
He heard the pealing of his parish bells; 
Then, tho' he knew not w-herefore, started up 
Shuddering, and when tlie beauteous hateful isle 
Return'd upon him, had not his poor heart 
Spoken with That, which being evervwliere 
Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all alone, 
Surely the man had died of solitude. 



724 



ENOCH ARDEN. 




Thus over Enoch's cnrlv-silvering head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came and went 
Year after year. His hopes to see his own, 
And pace the sacred old famiHar fields, 
Not yet l/ati perish'd, when his lonely doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another ship 
(She wanted water) blown by baffling winds. 
Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course, 
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay: 
For since the mate had seen at early dawn 
Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle 
The silent water slipping from the hills. 
They sent a crew that landing burst away 
In search of stream or fount, and fiU'd the shores 
With clamor. Downward from his mountain gorge 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Stept the long-haii'd long-bearded solitaiy, 

Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad, 

Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it scem'cl. 

With inarticulate rage, and making signs 

They knew not what: and yet he led the way 

To where the rivulets of sweet water lan; 

And ever as he mingled with the crew, 

And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue 

Was loosened, till he made them understand: 

Whom, when their casks were fiU'd they took aboard: 

And there the tale he utter'd brokenly. 

Scarce-credited at first but more and more. 

Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it: 

And clothes they gave him and free passage home; 

But oft he worked among the rest and shocjk 

His isolation from him. None of these 

Came from his country, or could answer him, 

If questioned, aught of what he cared to know. 

And dull the voyage was with long delays. 

The vessel scarce sea- worthy; but evermore 

His fancy fled before the lazy wintl 

Returning, till beneath a clouded moon 

He like a lover down thro' all his blood 

Drew in the dewy meadowy mornmg-breath 

Of England, blown across her ghostly wall: 

And that same morning officeis and men 

Levied a kindly tax upon themselves, 

Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it: 

Then moving up the coast they landed him, 

Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd before. 

There Enoch spoke no word to any one 
But homeward— -home — what home? had he a h.om.e? 
His home, he walked. Bright was that afternoon 
Sunny but chill; till drawn thro' either chasm. 
Where either haven open'd on the deeps, 
Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd tiie world in grav; 
Cut off the length of highway on before, 
And left but narrow breadth to left and right 
Of withered holt or tilth or pasturage. 
On the nigh-naked tree the Robi)i piped 
Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down: 
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom; 



726 ENOCH ARDEN. 



Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blottcil light 
Flared oa him, and he came upon the place. 

Then down the long street having slowly stolen, 
His heart foreshadowing all calaniit\', 
His eves upon the stones, he reached the home 
Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes 
In those far-off seven happy years were born; 
But finding neither light nor murmur tliere 
(A bill of sale gleamed thro' the drizzle) crept 
Still downward thinking "dead or dead to me! " 

Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went, 
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, 
A front of timber-crost antiquity. 
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinouslv old. 
He thought it must have gone; but he wa^ gone 
Who kept it: and his widow, Miriam Lane, 
With daily-dwindling profits held the house; 
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now 
Stiller, with 3-et a bed for wandering men. 
There Enoch rested silent manv davs. 



But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous, 
Nor let him be, but often breaking in, 
Told him, with other annals of the j)ort, 
Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, so Ijow'd, 
So broken — all the story of his house. 
His baby's death, her growing poverty. 
How Philip put her little ones to school. 
And kept them in it, his longwooing her, 
Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth 
Of Philip's chilli: and o'er iiis countenance 
No shadow past, nor motion ; any one, 
Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the tale 
Less than the teller: onl^- when she closed, 
" Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost " 
He shaking his gray head_pathetically. 
Repeated muttering " Cast away and lost," 
Again in deeper inward whispers "Lost!" 

But Enoch vcarn'd to see her face again; 
" If I might look on her sweet face again 
And know that she is happy." So the thought 



ENOCH ARDEN. 721 



Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him forth 
At evening when the dull November day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below: 
There did a thousand memories roll upon him, 
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light, 
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 
Against it, and beats out his weary life. 

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, 
The latest house to landward; but behind, 
With one small gate that open'd on the waste, 
Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd: 
And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a walk divided it: 
But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole 
Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence 
That which he better might have shunn'd, if griefs 
Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 

For cups and silver on the burnish'd board 
Sparkled and shone: so genial was the hearth; 
And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times. 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees; 
And o'er her second fiither stoopt a girl^ 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the l^abe, who rear'd his creasy arms, 
Caught qt and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd: 
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 
The mother glancing often towards her babe. 
But turning now and then to speak with him. 
Her son, who stood before her tall and strong. 
And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. 

Now when the dead man come to life beheld 
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee. 



728 ENOCH ARDEN. 



And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, 
And his own children tall and beautiful. 
And him, that other, reigning in his place. 
Lord of his rights and of his children's love, — 
Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all, 
Because things seen are mightier than things heard, 
Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and fear'd 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry. 
Which in one moment, like the blast of doom. 
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 

He therefore turning softh' like a thief. 
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot. 
And feeling all along the garden-wall, 
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found. 
Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed. 
As lightly as a sick-man's chamber-door. 
Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but that his knees 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd. 

" Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence? 
O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou 
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, 
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 
A little longer! aid me, give ine strength, 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her peace. 
My children too! must I not speak to these.? 
They know me not, I should betray myself. 
Never: no father's kiss for me, — the girl 
So like her mother, and the boy, my son." 

There speech and thought and nature fail'd a little. 
And he lay tranced ; but when he rose and paced 
Back toward his solitary home again, 
All down the narrow street he went 
Beating it in upon his weaiy brain. 
As tho' It were tlie burthen of a song, 
« Not to tell her, never to let her know," 



ENOCH ARDEN. 729 



He was not :ill uiihappv. His resolve 
Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore 
Prayer from a hving source withhi the will. 
And beating up thro' all the bitter world, 
Like fountains of sweet water in the sea. 
Kept him a living soul. " This miller's wife," 
He said to Miriam, " that you told me of, 
Has she no fear that her first husband lives?" 
" ^75 ''•Vi poor soul," said Miriam, " fear enow! 
If you could tell her you had seen him dead, 
Why, that would be her comfort: " and he tiiought, 
" After the Lord has call'd me she shall know, 
I wait his time," and Enoch set himself. 
Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. 
Almost to all things could he turn his hand. 
Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought 
To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'd 
At lading and unlading the tall barks, 
That brought the stinted commerce of those days: 
Thus earn'd a scanty living for himself: 
Yet since he did but labor for himself, 
Work without hope, there was not life in it 
Whereby the man could live; and as the year 
Roll'd itself round again to meet the day 
When Enoch had return'd, a languor came 
Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 
W'eakening the man, till he could do no more. 
But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed. 
And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfullv. 
For sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck 
See thro' the gray skills of a lifting squall 
The boat that bears the hope of life approach 
To save the life despair'd of, than he saw 
Death dawning on him, and the close of all. 

For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hope 
On Enoch thinking, " After I am gone. 
Then may she learn I loved her to the last." 
He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and said, 
" Woman, I have a secret — only swear. 
Before I tell you — swear upon the book 
Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." 
" Dead," clamor'd the good woman, " hear him talk! 
I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round." 



730 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



" Swear," added Enoch, sternly, " on the book. 
And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. 




Then Enoch, rolling his gray eyes upon her, 

" Did 3'ou know Enoch Arden of this town?" 

" Know him ? " she said, " I knew him far away. 

Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street; 

Held his head high, and cared for no man, he." 

Slowly and sadlv Enoch answer'd her: 

"His head is low, and no man cares for him. 

I think I have not three days more to liye; 

I am the man." At which the woman gave 

A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. 

" You Arden, you I nay, — sure he was a foot 

Higher than you be." Enoch said again, 

" My God has bow'd me down to what I am; 

My grief and solitude have broken me ; 

Neyertheless, know vou that I am he 

Who married — but that name has twice been changed— 

I married her who married Philip Ray. 

Sit, listen." Then he \o\>\ her of his voyage, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 731 



His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, 
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, 
And how he kept it. As the woman heard, 
Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears, 
While in her heart she yearn 'd incessantly 
To rush abroad all round the little haven, 
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes; 
But aWed and promise-bounden she forebore, 
Saying only, " See your bairns before you go I 
Eh, let me fetch 'm, Arden," and arose 
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung 
A moment on her words, but then replied: 

" Woman, disturb me not now at the last, 
But let mc hold my purpose till I die. 
Sit down again; mark me and understand, 
While I have power to speak. I charge you now. 
When you shall see her, tell her that I died 
Blessing her, praying for her, loving her; 
Sa\c for the bar between us, loving her 
As when she laid her head beside my own. 
And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw- 
So like her mother, that my latest breath 
Was spent in blessing her and praving for her. 
And tell my son that I died blessing him. 
And say to Philip that I blest him too, 
He never meant us anvtliing hut good. 
But if my children care to see me dead. 
Who hardly knew me living, let them come, 
I am their father; but siie must not come, 
For my tlead face would vex her after-life. 
And now there is but one of all my blood, 
Who will embrace me in the worid-to-be: 
This hair is his: she cut it off and gave it. 
And I have borne it with ine all these years, 
And thought to bear it with me to mv grave: 
But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him.. 
My babe in bliss: wherefore ^vhen I am gone, 
Take, give her this, for it ma3' comfort her: 
It will moreover be a token to her. 
That I am he." 



He ceased; and Miriam Lane 
Made such a voluble answer promising all, 



732 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



That once again lie roll'd his eves upon her 
Repeating all he wishVI, and once again 
She promised. 

Then the third night after this, 
While Enoch sluniber'd motionless and pale, 
And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals. 
There came so loud a calling of the sea. 
That all the houses in the haven rang. 
He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad 
Crying with a lond voice " A sail! a sail! 
I am saved;" and so fell back and spoke no more. 

So past the strong heroic soul av\'ay. 
And when they buried him the little port 
Had seldoin seen a costlier funeral. 




vyjMf/, 







WlSM . 



ATLMER'S FIELD. 



735 



AyLMER'S FIELD. 




1 79c 



UST are our frames: and, gilded dust, our pride 
Looks only for a moment v/hole and sound; 
Like that ion^- buried body of the king, 

Found lying with his urns and ornaments. 

Whicli at a touch of light, an air of Iieaven, 

Slijot into ashes and was found no more. 



Here is a storj- which in rougher shape 
Came from a grizzled cripple, whom I saw 
Sunning himself in a waste field alone — 
Old, and a mine of memories — who had served. 
Long since, a bygone Rector of the place, 
And been himself a part oi what he told. 

Sir Aylmer Aylmer, that almighty man, 
The county God — in whose capacious hall. 
Hung with a hundred shields, the family tree 
Sprang from the midriff of a prostrate king — 
Whose blazing wyvern weathercock'd the spire, 
Stood from his walls and wing'd his entry-gates 
And swang besides on many a windy sign — 
Whose eyes from under a pyramidal head 

Saw from his windows nothing save his own 

What lovelier of his own had he than her. 

His only child, his Edith, whom he loved 

As heiress and not heir regretfully? 

But "he that marries her marries her name" 

This fiat somewhat soothed himself and wife, 

His wife a faded beauty of the Baths, 

Insipid as the Queen upon a card ; 

Her all of thought and bearing hardly more 

Than his own shadow in a sickly sun. 



A land of hops and poppy-mingled corn, 
Littie about it stirring save a brook! 



736 



ArLMER'S FIELD. 



A sleepy land where under the same wheel 

The same old rut would deepen year by year; 

V/?;ere almost all the village had one name; 

V,"-:ere Avlmer follow'd Aylmer at the Hall 

Ar.d Averill Averill at the Rectory 

Thrice over; so that Rectorj' and Hall, 

Bound in an immemorial intimacy, 

Were open to each other; tho' to dream 

That Love could bind them closer well had made 

The hoar hair of the Baionet bristle up 

With horror, worse than had he heard his priest 

Preach an inverted Scripture, sons of men 

Daughters of God ; so sleepy was the land. 




And might not Averill, had he will'd it so, 
Somewhere beneath his own low range of roofs, 
Have also set his many-shielded tree? 
There was an Aylmer-Averill marriage once, 
When the red rose is redder than itself. 
And York's white rose as red as Lancaster's, 
With wounded peace which each had prick'd to death. 
*' Not proven," Averill said, or laughingly, 
" Some other race of Averills " — prov'n or no. 
What cared he? what, if other or the same? 
He lean'd not on his fathers but himself. 
But Leolin, his brother, living oft 
With Averill, and a year or two before 
Caird to the bar, but ever call'd away 
By one low voice to one dear neighborhood, 
Would often, in his walks with Edith, claim 
A distant kinship to the gracious blood 
That shook the heart of Edith hearing hirr.. 



ATLMER'S FIELD. , 787 



Sanguine he was; a but less vivid hue 
Than of that islet in the chestnut-bloom 
Flamed in his cheek; and eager eyes, that still 
Took joyful note of all things joyful, heam'd. 
Beneath a manelike mass of rolling gold, 
Their best and brightest, when they dwelt on hers; 
Edith, whose pensive beauty, perfect else, 
But subject to the season or the mood, 
Shone like a mystic star between the less 
And greater glorv varying to and fro. 
We know not \vherefore; bounteously made. 
And yet so finely, that a troublous touch 
Thinn'd, or would seem to thin her in a day, 
A joyous to dilate, as toward the light. 
And these had been together from the first. 
Leolin's first nurse was, five years after, hers: 
So much the boy foreran; but when his date 
Doubled her own, for want of playmates, he 
(Since Averill was a decade and a half 
His elder, and their parents underground) 
Had tost his ball and flown his kite, and roll'd 
His hoop to pleasure Edith, with her dipt 
Against the rush of the air in the prone swing, 
Made blossom-ball or daisy chain, arrang'd 
Her garden, sow'd her name and kept it green 
In lixing letters, told her fairs-tales, 
Show'd her the fairy footings on the grass. 
The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms. 
The petty marestail forest, fairy pine§. 
Or from the tiny pitted target blew 
What !ook'd a flight of fairy arrows aim'd 
All at one mark, all hitting: make-believes 
For Edith and himself: or else he forged, 
But that was later, boyish histories 
Of battle, bold adventure, dungeon, wreck. 
Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and true love 
Crown'd after trial; sketches rude and faint, 
But where a passion y'et unborn perhaps 
Lay hidden as the music of the moon 
Sleeps in ihe plain eggs of the nightingale. 
And thus together, save for college-times 
Or Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair 
As ever painter painted, poet sang, 
Or Heav'n in lavish bounty moulded, grew. 
And more and more, the maiden woman-grown, 
47 



738 ATLMERS FIELD. 



He wasted hours with Avcrill; there, \vheu first 

The tented whiter-field was broken up 

Into that phalanx of the summer spears 

That soon should wear the garland; there again 

When burr and bine were gathcr'd : lastly there 

At Christmas; ever welcome at the Hall, 

On whose dull sameness his full tide of youth 

Broke with a phosphorescence cheering even 

My lady; and the Baronet yet had laid 

No bar between (hem : dull and self-involv'd. 

Tall and erect, but bending from his height 

With half-allowing smiles for all the world, 

And mighty courteous in the main — his pride 

Lay deeper than to wear it as his ring — 

He, like an Aylmer in his Aylmerism, 

W^ould care no more for Leolin's walking with her 

Than for his old Newfoundland's, when they ran 

To loose him at the stables, for he rose 

Twofooted at the limit of his chain. 

Roaring to make a third: and how should Love, 

Whom the cross-lightnings of four chance-met eyes 

Flash into fierv life from nothing, follow . 

Such ilear familiarities of dawn? 

Seldom, but when he does, master of all. 

So these young hearts not knowing that they loved, 
Not she at least, nor conscious of a bar 
Between them, nor by plight or broken ring 
Bound, but an immemorial intimacy, 
Wandei'd at will, but oft accompanied 
By Averill: his, a brother's love, that hung 
With wings of brooding shelter o'er her peace. 
Might have been other, save for Leolin's — 
Who knows? but so they wander'd, hour by hour 
Gather'd the blossom that rebloom'd, and drank 
The magic cup that fill'd itself anew. 

A whisper half reveal'd her to herself. 
For out beyond her lodges, where the brook 
Vocal, with here and there a silence, ran 
By sallowv rims, arose the laborers' homes, 
A frequent haunt of Edith, on low knobs 
That dimpling died into each other, huts 
At random scatter'd, each a nest in bloom. 



ATLMER'S FIELD. 



739 



Her art, her hand, her counsel all had wrought 

About them: here was one that, summer-blanch'd, 

Was parcel-bearded with the traveller's joy 

In Autumn, parcel ivv-clad; and here 

The warm-blue breathings of a hidden hearth 

Broke from a bower of \ine and honeysuckle: 

One look'd all rosetree, and another wore 

A close-set robe of jasmine sown with stars: 

This had a rosy sea of gilly-flowers 

About it: this a milky -way on earth. 

Like visions in the Northern dreamer's heavens, 

A lily-avenue climbing to the doors; 

One, almost to the martin-haunted eaves 

A summer burial deep in hollyhock; 




Each, its own charm; and Edith's everywhere; 
And Edith ever visitant with him, 
He but less loved than Edith, of her poor: 
For she, so lowly-lovely and so loving, 
Queenh' responsi\c when the loyal hand 
Rose from the clav it work'd in as she past, 
Not sowing hedgerow texts and passing by. 
Nor dealing goodly counsel from a height 



740 



ATLMBR'S FIELD. 



That makes the lowest hate it, but a voice 
Of comfort and an open hand of help, 
A splendid presence flattering the poor roofs 
Revered as theirs, hut kindlier than themselves 
To ailing wife or wailing infancy 
Or old bedridden palsy, — was adored; 
He, loved for her and for himself. A grasp 
Having the warmth and muscle of the heart, 
A childly way witli children, and a laugh 
Ringing like proven golden coinage true, 
Were no false passport to tliat easy realm. 
Where once with Leolin at her side the giil. 
Nursing a child, and turning to the warmth 
The tender pink fivc-lseaded babv-soles. 
Heard the good mother softly whisper " Bless, 
God bless 'em ; marriages are made in Heaven." 

A flash of semi-jealous}' clear'd it to her. 
My lady's Indian kinsman unannounc'd 
With half a score of swarthy faces came. 
His own, tho' keen and bold and soldierlv, 
Sear'd by the close ecliptic, was not fair; 
Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled the hour, 
Tho' seeming boastful: so when first he dash'd 
Into the chronicle of a deedful day. 
Sir Aylmer half forgot his lazv smile 
Of patron " Good! my lady's kinsman, good! " 
My lady with her fingers interlock'd. 
And rotatory thumbs on silken knees, 
Call'd all her vital spirits into each ear 
To listen: unawares they flitted off. 
Busying themselves about the flowerage 
That stood from out a stiff brocade in which. 
The meteor of a splendid season, she, 
Once with this kinsman, ah so long ago, 
Stcptthro' the stately minuet of those davs: 
But Edith's eager fancy hurried with him 
Snatch'd thro' the perilous passes of his life*. 
Till Leolin ever watchfid of her e^-e 
Hated him with a momentary hate. 
Wife-hunting, as the rumor ran, was he: 
I know not, for he spoke not, only showor'd 
His oriental gifts on everv one. 
And most on Edith: like a storm he came. 
And shook the house, and like a storm he went. 



Al /^MER'S FIELD. 741 



Among the gifts he left her (possibly 
He flow'd and ebb'd uncertain, to return 
When others had been tested) there was one. 
A dagger, in rich sheatii with jewels on it 
Sprinkled about in gold that branch'd itself 
Fine as ice-ferns on January panes 
Made by a breatli. I know not whence at first. 
Nor of what race, the work ; but as lie told 
The story, storming a hill-fort of thieves 
He got it; for their captain after fight. 
His comrades having fought their last below, 
Was climbing up the valley; at whom he shot: 
Down from the beetling crag to which he clung 
Tumbled the tawny rascal at his feet, 
This dagger with him, Vv-hich when now admir'd 
By Edith, whom his pleasure was to please, 
^t once the costly Sahib yielded to her. 

And Leolin, coming after he was gone, 
Tost over all her presents petulantly: 
And when she show'd the wealthy scabbard, saying 
"Look ^vhat a lovely piece of workmanship!" 
Slight \vas his answer, " Well — I care not for it;" 
Then playing witii tiie blade he prick'd his hand, 
" A gracious gift to give a lady, this!" 
" But would it be more gracious," ask'd the girl, 
" Were I to give this gift of his to one 
That is no lad)? "' " Gracious? No," said he. 
" Me! — but I cared not for it. O pardon me, 
I seem to be ungraciousness itself." 
"Take it," she added sweetly, " tho' his gift; 
For I am more ungracious e'en than you, 
I care not for it either;" and he said 
" Why then I love it: " but Sir Aylmer past, 
And neither loved nor liked the thing he heard. 

The next day came a neighbor. Blues and reds 
Thev talk'd of: blues were sure of it, he thought; 
Then of the latest fox — where started — kill'd 
In such a bottom: " Peter had the brush, 
My Peter, first: " and did Sir Aylmer know 
That great pock-pitten fellow had been caught? 
Then made his pleasure echo, hand to hand. 
And rolling as it were the substance of it 



742 ATLMER'S FIELD. 



Between his jjalins a moment up and down — 

" The birds were warm, the birds weie warm upon him; 

We have him now;" and had Sir Ayhner heard — 

Nav, but he must — the land was ringing of it — 

This blacksmith-border marriage — one they knew — 

Raw from the nursery — who could trust a child? 

That cursed France with her egalities! 

And did Sir Aylmer (deferentially 

With Hearing chair and lower'd accent) think — 

For people talk'd — that it was wholh' \vise 

To let that handsome fellow Averill walk 

So freely with liis daughter? people talk'd — 

The boy might get a notion into him; 

The girl might be entangled ere she knew. 

Sir Aylmer Aylmer slowly stiffening — spoke: 

"The girl and boy, sir, know their differences!"' 

" Good," said his fi-iend, " but watch! " and he " Enough, 

More than enough, Sir! I can guard mv own." 

They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer watch'd. 

I 

Pale, for on her the thunders of the house 
Had fallen first, was Edith that same night; 
Pale as the Jephtha's daughter, a rough piece 
Of early rigid color, under which. 
Withdrawing hy the counter door to that 
Which Leolin open'd, she cast back upon him 
\ piteous glance, and vanish'd. He,, as one 
iCaught in a burst of unexpected storm, 
And pelted with outrageous epithets, 
Turning beheld the Powers of the House 
On either side the hearth, indignant; her. 
Cooling her false cheek with a feather-fan, 
Him glaring, b)' his own stale devil spurr'd. 
And, like a beast hard-ridden, breathing hard. 
" Ungenerous, dishonorable, base. 
Presumptuous! trusted as he was with her. 
The sole succeeder to their wealth, their lands. 
The last i-emaining pillar of their house, 
The one transmitter of their ancient name. 
Their child. "Our child!" " Our heiress!" "Ours!" for 

still. 
Like echoes from beyond a hollow, came 
Her sicklier iteration. Last he said 
"Boy, mark me! for your fortunes are to make. 
I swear you shall not make them out of mine. 



ArLMER'S FIELD. 743 



Now inasmuch as vou h;ne practised on her, 

Perplext her, made her half forget herself, 

Swerve from her duty to herself and us — 

Things in an Aylmer deem'a impossible, 

Far as we track ourselves — 1 say that this, — 

Else I withdraw favor and countenance 

From you and 3'ours forever — shall 3'ou do. 

Sir, when you see her — but you shall not see her — = 

No, you shall write, and not to her, but me: 

And you shall sajr that ha\'ing spoken with me, 

And after look'd into vourself, you find 

That you meant nothing — as indeed 3'ou know 

That you ineant nothing. Such a match as this! 

Impossible, prodigious!" These were words, 

As meted by his measure of himself, 

Arguing boundless forbearance: after which, 

And Leolin's horror-stricken answer, " I 

So foul a traitor to myself and her. 

Never, O never," for about as long 

As the wind-hover hangs in balance, paused 

Sir Aylmer reddening from the storm within. 

Then bi'oke all bounds of courtesj', and crying 

" Boy, should I find you by my doors again 

My men shall lash you from them like a dog; 

Hence!" with a sudden execration drove 

Tlie footstool from before him, and arose; 

So, stammering " scoundrel " out of teeth that ground 

As in a dreadful dream, while Leolin still 

Retreated half-aghast, the fierce old man 

Follow'd, and under his own lintel stood 

Storming with lifted hands, a hoary face 

Meet for the reverence of the hearth, but now 

Beneath a pale and uninipasston'd moon, 

Vext with unworthy madness, and deform'd. 

Slowlv and conscious of the raging e\'e 
That watch'd him, till he heard the ponderous door 
Close, crashing with long echoes thro' the land. 
Went Leolin; then, his passions all in flood 
And masters of his motion, furiously 
Down thro' the bright lawns to his brother's ran, 
And foam'd away his heart at Averill's ear: 
Whom Averill solac'd as he might, amazed: 
The man was his, had been his father's, friend: 
He must have seen, himself had seen it long; 



(44 ATLMER'S FIELD. 



He must have known, himself had known: besides, 

He never yet had set his daughter forth 

Here in the woman-markets of the west. 

Where our Caucasians let themselves be sold. 

Some one, he thought, had slander'd Leolin to him. 

" Brother, for I have loved you more as son 

Than brotiier, let me tell you: I myself — 

What is tiieir pretty saying? jilted, is it? 

Jilted 1 was: I say it for your peace. 

Pain'd, and, as bearing in myself the shame 

The woman should have borne, humiliated, 

I lived for years a stunted sunless life; 

Till after our good parents past away 

Watching your growth, I seem'd again to grow. 

Leolin, I almost sin in envying you: 

The very whitest lamb in all my fold 

Loves you: I know her: the worst thought she has 

Is whiteV even than her pretty hand : 

She must prove true: for, brother, where two fight 

The strongest wins, and truth and love are strength, 

And you are happ}': let her parents be." 

But Leolin cried out the more upon them — 
Insolent, brainless, heartless! heiress, wealth, 
Their wealth, their heiress! wealth enough was theirs 
For twenty matches. Were he lord of this, 
Wh}' twenty boys and girls should marry on it. 
And forty blest ones bless him, and himself 
Be wealthy still, ay wealthier. He believed 
This filthy marriage-hindering Mammon made 
The harlot of the cities; nature crost 
Was mother of the foul adulteries 
That saturate soul with body. Name, too! name, 
Their ancient name! they might be proud; its worth 
Was being Edith's. Ah how pale she had look'd 
Darling, to-night! they must have rated her 
Beyond all tolerance. These old pheasant-lords. 
These partriilge-breeders of a thousand years. 
Who had mildcw'd in their thousands, doing noticing 
Since Egbert — why, the greater their disgrace! 
Fall back upon a name! rest, rot in that! 
Not keep it noble, make it nobler? fools. 
With such a vantage-ground for nobleness! 
He had known a man, a quintessence of man, 
The life of all — who madly loved — and he, 



ArLMER'S FIELD. 



/45 



Thwarted by one of these old father-fools, 
Had rioted his life out, and made an end. 
He would not do it! her sweet face and faith 
Held him fi-om that: but he had powers, lie knew it: 
Back would lie to his stuilies, make a name. 
Name, fortune too: the world should ring- of him 
To shame these mouldy Aylmers in their graves: 
Chancellor, or what is greatest, would he be — 
" O brother, I am grieved to learn your grief — 
Give me my fling, and let me say my su}-." 

At which, like one that sees his own excess. 
And easily forgives it as his own. 
He laugh'd; and then was mute; but pi'escntly 
Wept like a storm: and honest Averill seeing 
How low his brother's mood had fallen, fetch'd 
His richest beeswing from a binn reserv'd 












/ I > 



i'W 



-ii K, 







^C)^^- 



For banquets, praised the waning red, and told 
The vmtage — when this Aylmer came of age — 



• -16 ATLMERS FIELD. 



Then drank au<l past it: till at length the two 
Tho' Leolin flamed and fell again, agreed 
That much allowance must be made for men. 
After an angry gleam this kindlier glow 
Faded with morning, hut his purpose held. 

Yet once bv night again the lovers met, 
A perilous meeting under the tall pines 
That darkened all the northward of her Hall. 
Him, to her meek and modest bosom prest 
In agony, shepromis'd that no force. 
Persuasion, no, nor death, could alter her: 
He, passionately hopefuller, ^vould go, 
Laboi' for his own Edith, anil return 
In such a sunlight of prosperity 
He should not be rejected. " Write to me! 
They loved me, and because I loved their child 
They hate me: there is war between us, dear. 
Which bi-eaks all bonds but ours; we must remain 
Sacred to one another." So they talk'd, 
Poor children, for their comfort: the wind blew; 
The rain of heaven, and their own bitter tears, 
Tears, and the careless rain of heaven, mixt 
Upon theii' faces, as they kiss'd each other 
In darkness, and above them roar'd the pine. 

So Leolin went; and as we task ourselves 
To learn a language known but smatteringly 
In phrases here and there at random, toil'd 
Mastering the lawless science of our law. 
That codeless myriad of precedent. 
That wilderness of single instances, 
Thro' which a few, by wit or fortune led, 
May beat a path\vay out to wealth and f;ime. 
The jests, that flash'd about the pleader's room, 
Lightning of the hour, the pun, the scurrilous tale,- 
Old scandals buried now seven decades deep 
In other scandals that have lived and died, 
And left the living scandal that shall die — 
\\'ere dead to him already; bent as he ^vas 
To make disproof of scorn, and strong in hopes, 
And prodigal of all brain-labor he. 
Charier of sleep, and ^vine and exercise, 
Except when for a breathing-\vhile at eve. 
Some niggard fraction of an hour, he ran 



ATLMER'S FIELD. 



Beside the liver-bank: and then indeed 
Harder the times were, and the hands of power 
Were bloodier, and the according hearts of men 
Seeni'd harder too; but the soft river-breeze, 
Which fann'd the gardens of that rival rose 
Yet fragrant in a heart remembering 
His former talks with Edith, on him lireathed 
Far purelier in his rushings to and fro, 
After his books, to flush his blood with air, 
Then to his books again. My lady's cousin, 
Half-sickening of his pensioned afternoon. 
Drove in upon the student once or twice. 
Ran a Malayan muck against the times. 
Had golden hopes for France and all mankind, 
Ansvver'd all queries touching those at home 
With a heav'd shoulder and a saucy smile. 
And fain had haled him out into the world, 
And air'd him there: his nearer friend would say, 
" Screw not the cord too sharply lest it snap." 
Then left alone he pluck'd her dagger forth 
From where his worldless heart had kept it warm, 
Kissing his vows upon it like a knight. 
And wrinkled benchers often talk'd of him 
Approvingly, and prophesied his rise: 
For heart, I think, help'd head: her letters too, 
Tho' far between, and coming fitfully 
Like broken music, written as she found 
Or made occasion, being strictly watch'd, 
Charm'd him thi'o' every labyrinth till he saw 
An end, a hope, a light breaking upon him. 

But they that cast her spirit into flesh, 
Her worldly-wise begetters, plagued themselves 
To sell her, those good parents, for her good. 
Whatever eldest-born of rank or wealth 
Might lie within their compass, him thc\- lured 
Into their net made pleasant by the baits 
Of gold anil beauty, wooing him to woo. 
So month by month the noise about their doors. 
And distant blaze of those dull banquets, made 
The nightly wirer of their innocent hare 
Falter before he took it. All in vain. 
Sullen, defiant, pitying, wroth, return'd 
Leolin's rejected rivals from their suit 
So often, that the foll^' taking wings 



74:8 ATLMER-S FIELD. 



Slipt o'er those lazy limits down the ^vin^l 
With rumor, and became in other fields 
A mockery to the yeoman over ale, 
And laughter to their lords: but those at home. 
As hunters round a hunted creature draw 
The cordon close and closer toward the death, 
Narrow^'d her goings out and comings in ; 
Forbad her first the house of Averill, 
Then closed her access to the wealthier farins. 
Last from her own home-circle of the poor 
They barr'd her: j'et she bore it: yet her cheek 
Kept color: wondrous! but, O mystery! 
What amulet drew her down to that old oak. 
So old that twenty years before, a part 
Falling had let appear a brand of John — 
Once grovelike, each huge arm a tree, but now 
The broken base of a black tower, a cave 
Of touchwood, with a single flourishing spray. 
There the manorial lord too curiously 
taking in that millennial touchwood-dust 
ound for himself a bitter treasure-trove; 
Burst his own wyvern on the seal, and read 
Writhmg a letter from his child, for which 
Came at the moment Leolin's emissarj-, 
A crippl'd lad, and coming turn'd to fly. 
But scared with threats of jail and halter gave 
To him that flustered his poor parish wits 
The letter which he brought, and swore beside 
To play their go-between as heretofore 
Nor let them know themselves betray'd; and then, 
Soul-stricken at their kindness to him, went 
Hating his own lean heart and miserable. 

Thenceforward oft from out a despot dream 
The father panting woke, and oft, at dawn 
Arous'd the black republic on his elms, 
Sweeping the frothfly from the fescue, brush'd 
Tliro' the dim meadow toward his treasure-trove, 
Seiz'ii it, took home, and to my lady, — who, made 
A downward crescent of her minion mouth, 
Listless in all despondence, — read; and tore. 
As if the living passion svmbol'd there 
Were living nerves to feel the rent; and burnt, 
Now chafing at his own great self defied. 
Now striking on huge stumbling-blocks of scorn 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 749 



In babyisms, and dear diminutives 

Scatter'd all over the vocabulary 

Of such a love as like a chidden child, 

After much wailing, hush'd itself at last 

Hopeless of answer: then tho' Averill wrote 

And bade him with good heart sustain himself — 

All would be well — the lover heeded not, 

But passionately restless came and went, 

And rustling once at night about the place, 

There by a keeper shot at, slightly hurt. 

Raging return'd: nor was it well for her 

Kept to the garden now, and grove of pines, 

Watch'd even there; and one was set to watch 

The watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch'd them all, 

Yet bitterer from his readings: once indeed, 

Warm'd with his wines or taking pride in her, 

She look'd so sweet, he kiss'd her tenderlv 

Not knowing what possess'd him: that one kiss 

Was Leolin's one strong rival upon earth; 

Seconded, for my lad_v follow'd suit, 

Seem'd hope's returning rose: and then ensued 

A Martin's summer of his faded love, 

Or ordeal by kindness; after this 

He seldom crost his child without a sneer; 

The mother flow'd in shallower acrimonies: 

Never one kindly smile, one kindly worth 

So that the gentle creature shut from all 

Her charitable use, and face to face 

With twenty months of silence, slowlv lost 

Nor greatly cared to lose, her hold on life. 

Last, some low fever ranging round to spy 

The weakness of a people or a house. 

Like flies that haunt a wound, or deer, or men. 

Or almost all that is, hurling the hurt — 

Save Chi-ist as we believe him — found the girl 

And flung her down upon a couch of fire, 

Where careless of the household faces near, 

And crying upon the name of Leolin, 

She, and with her the race of Avlmcr, past. 

Star to star vibrates light: may soul to soul 
Strike thro' a finer element of her own? 
So, — from afar, — touch us at once? or why 
That night, that moment, when she named his name, 
Did the keen shriek, "Yes love, yes Edith, yes," 



750 AYLMER'S FIELD. 

Shrill, till the comrade of his chambers woke, 
And came upon him half-arisen from sleep, 
W^ith a weird bright eye, sweating and trembling. 
His hair as it were crackling into flames. 
His body half flung forward in pui^suit. 
And his long arms stretch'd as to grasp a fiver: 
Nor knew he wherefore he had made the cry: 
And being much befoolVI and idioted 
By the rough amity of the other, sank 
As into sleep again. The second day, 
Mv lady's Indian kinsman rushing in, 
A breaker of the bitter news from home, 
Fnunil a dead man, a letter edged with death 
Beside him, and the dagger which himself 
Gave Edith, redden'd with no bandit's blood: 
" From Edith " was engraven on the blade. 

Then Averill went and gazed upon his death. 
And when he came again, his flock believ'd — 
Beholding how the years which are not Time's 
Had blasted him — that many thousand days 
Were dipt by horror from his term of life. 
Yet the sad mother, for the second death, 
Scarce touch'd her thro' that nearness of the first, 
And being used to find her pastor texts. 
Sent to the harrow'd brother, praying him 
To speak before the jseople of her child. 
And fixt the Sabbath. Darkly that dav rose: 
Autumn's mock sunshine of the faded woods 
Was all the life of it; for hard on these, 
A breathless buithen of low-folded heavens 
Stifled and chill'd at once; but every roof 
Sent out a listener: manv- too liad known 
Edith among the hamlets round, and since 
The parents' harshness and the hapless loves 
And double death were widely murmur'd, left 
Their own gray tower, or plain-faced tabernacle, 
To hear him; all in mourning these, and those 
With blots of it about them, ribbon, glove 
Or kerchief; while the church, — one night, except 
For greenish glimmerings thro' the lancets, — made 
Still paler the pale head of him, who tower'd 
Above them, with his hopes in either grave. 



ATLMER-S FIELD. 



751 



Long o'er his bent brows linger'd Averill, 
His face magnetic to the hand from which 
Livid he jjluck'd it forth, and iabor'd tlno' 
His brief prayer-prehKJe, gave the verse, " Behold, 
Your house is left unto j-ou desolate! " 
But laps'd into so long a pause again 
As half amaz'd, half frighted all his flock: 
Then from his height and loneliness of grief* 
Bore down in flood, and dash'd his angry heart 
Against tlie desolations of the world. 

Never since our bad earth became one sea, 
Which rolling o'er the palaces of the proud, 
And all but those who knew the living God — 




Eight that were left to make a purer world — 

When since had flood, fire, earthquake, thunder, wrought 

Such waste and havoc as the idolatries, 

Which from the low light of mortality 

Shot up their shadows to the Heaven of Heavens, 

And worshipt their own darkness as the Highest? 

" Gash thyself, priest, and honor thy brute Baal, 

And to thy worst self sacrifice thyself. 

For with thy worst self hast thou clothed thy God." 

Then came a Lord in no wise like to Baal. 

The babe shall lead the lion. Surelv now 

The wilderness shall blossom as the rose. 

Crown thyself, worm, and worship thine own lusts! — 

No coarse and blockish God of acreage 



752 ATLMEP'S FIELD. 



Stands at thy gate for thee to grovel to — 

Th)' God is far diffused in noble groves 

And princely halls, and farms, and flowing lawns, 

And heaps of living gold that daily grow, 

And title-scrolls and gorgeous heraldries. 

In such a shape dost thou behold thy God. 

Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for him; for thine 

Fares richly, in fine linen, not a hair 

Rufl3ed upon the scarfskin, even while 

The deathless ruler of thy dying house 

Is wounded to the death that cannot die; 

And tho' thou numberest with the followers 

Of One who cried " Leave all and follow me. " 

Thee therefore with His light about th)' ft-et, 

Thee with His message ringing in thine ears, 

Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord from Heaven, 

Born of a village girl, carpenter's son. 

Wonderful, Prince of peace, the Mighty God, 

Count the more base idolater of the two; 

Crueller: as not passing thro' the fire 

Bodies, but souls — thy children's — thro' the smoke. 

The blight of low desires — darkening thine own 

To thine own likeness; or if one of these. 

Thy better born unhappily from thee. 

Should, as by miracle, grow straight and fair — 

Friends, I was bid to speak of such a one 

By those who most have cause to son-ow for her — 

Fairer than Rachel by the palmy well. 

Fairer than Ruth among the fields of corn, 

Fair as the Angel that said " hail " she seem'd. 

Who entering fiU'd the house with sudden light. 

For so mine own was brighten'd : where indeed 

The roof so lowly but that beam of Heaven 

Dawn'd sometimes thro' tiie doorway? whose the babe 

Too ragged to be fondled on her lap, 

Warm'd at her bosom? The poor child of shame, 

The common care, whom no one cared for, leapt 

To greet her, wasting his forgotten heart. 

As with the mother he had never known, 

In gambols; for her fresh and innocent eyes 

Had such a star of morning in their blue, 

That all neglected places of the field 

Broke into nature's music when they saw her. 

Low w as her voice, but won mysterious way 

Thro' the seal'd ear, to which a louder one 



ArLMEJi'S FIELD. 753 



Was all but silence — free of alms her hand 

The hand that robed your cottage-wall with flowers 

Has often toil'd to clothe _vour little ones; 

How often placed upon the sick man's brow 

Cool'd it, or laid his feverous pillow smooth! 

Had you one sorrow and she shared it not? 

One burthen and she would not lighten it? 

One spiritual doubt she did not soothe? 

Or when some heat of difference sparkled out, 

How sweetly would she glide between vour wraths, 
And steal you from each other! for she walk'd 

Wearing the light yoke of that Lord of love. 
Who still'dthe rolling waves of Galilee! 

And one — of him I was not bid to speak 

Was always with her, whom you also knew. 
Him too you loved, for he was worth\- love. 
And these had been together from the first; 
They might have been together till the last. 
Friends, this frail bark of ours, when sorely tried. 
May wreck itself witliout the pilot's guilt. 
Without the captain's knowledge: hope with me. 
Whose shame is that, if he went hence with shame? 
Nor mine the fault, if losing both of these 
I cry to vacant chairs and widow'd walls, 
" My house is left unto me desolate." 

While thus he spoke, his hearers wept; but some, 
Sons of the glebe, with other frowns tiian those 
That knit themselves for summer shadows, scowl'd 
At their great lord. He, when it seem'd he saw 
No pale sheet-lightnings from afar, but fork'd 
Of the near storm, and aiming at his head. 
Sat anger-charm'd from sorrow, soldier-like. 
Erect; but when the preachfer's cadence flow'd 
Softening through all the gentle attributes 
Of his lost child, the wife, who watch'd his f:ice. 
Paled at a sudden twitch of his iron mouth ; 
And, " O pray God that he hold up," she thought, 
" Or surely I shall shame myself and him." 

" Nor yours the blame — for who beside your hearths 
Can take her place — if echoing me vou crv 
' Our house is left unto us desolate? ' 
But thou, O thou that killest, hadst thou known, 



46 



754 ATLMER'S FIELD. 



O thou that stoiiest, hadst thou luiderstood 

Tlie things belonging to thy peace and ours! 

Is tliere no prophet but the voice tliat calls 

Doom upon kings, or in the waste ' Repent? ' 

Is not our own ciiild on the narrow %vav, 

Who down to those that sainiter in the broad 

Cries, ' Come up hither,' as a prophet to us? 

Is there no stoning save with flint and rock? 

Yes, as the dead we \veep for testify — 

No desolation but by sword and fire? 

Yes, as your moanings witness, and myself 

Am lonelier, darker, earthlier for mv loss. 

Give ine yoiu' prayers, for he is past your prayers, 

Not past the living fount,of pity in Heaven. 

But I that thought myself long-suffering, meek. 

Exceeding ' poor in spirit ' — how the words 

Have twisted back upon themselves and mean 

Vileness, we are grown so proud — I wish'd mv voice 

A rushing tempest of the wrath of God 

To blow these sacrifices thro' the world — 

Sent like tlie twelve-divided concubine 

To inflame the tribes; but there— out yonder — earth 

Lightens from her pwn central Hell — O there 

The red fruit of an old idolatrv — 

The heads of chiefs and princes fall so fast, 

They cling together in the ghastly sack — 

The land all shambles — naked marriages 

Flash from the bridge, and ever-murder'd France, 

By shores that darken with the gathering wolf. 

Runs in a river of blood to the sick sea. 

Is this a time to madden madness then ? 

Was this a time for these to flaunt their pride? 

May Pliaraoh's darkness, folds as dense as those 

Which hid the Holiest from the people's eyes 

Ere the great death, shroud this great sin from all : 

Doubtless our narrow world must canvass it; 

Or rather pray for those and pity them 

Who thro' their own desire accomplish'd bring 

Their own gray hairs with sorrow to the grave — 

Who broke the bond which they desired to break — 

Which else had link'd their race with times to come — 

Who wove coarse webs to snare her purity, 

Grossly contriving their dear daughter's good — 

Poor souls, and knew not what they did, but sat 

Ignorant, devising their own daughter's death! 

May not that earthly chastisement suffice? 



ATLMER'S FIELD. 755 



Have not our love and reverence left them bare? 

Will not another take their heritage? 

Will there be children's laughter in their hall 

Forever and forever, or one stone 

Left on another, or is it a light thing 

That I their guest, their host, their ancient friend, 

I made by these the last of all my race 

Must cry to these the last of theirs; as cried 

Christ ere His agony to those that swore 

Not by the temple but the gold, and made 

Their own traditions God, and slew the Lord, 

And left their memories a world's curse — ' Behold, 

Your house is left unto you desolate.' " 

Ended he had not, but she brook'd no more; 
Long since her heart had beat remorselessly, 
Her cramjjt-up sorrow pain'd her, and a sense 
Of meanness in her unresisting life. 
Then their eyes vext her; for on entering 
He had cast the curtains of their seat aside — 
Black velvet of the costliest — she herself 
Had seen to that: fain had she closed them now. 
Yet dared not stir to do it, only near'il 
Her husband inch by inch, luit when she laid 
Wifelike, lier hand in one of his, he veil'd 
His face with the other, and at once as falls 
A creeper when the prop is broken, fell 
The woman shrieking at his feet, and swoon'd. 
Then her own people bore along the nave 
Her pendant hands, and narrow meagre face 
Seam'd with the shallow cares of fifty years: 
And her the Lord of all the landscape round 
Ev'n to its last horizon, and of all 
Who peer'd at him so keenly, follow'd out 
Tall and erect, but in the middle aisle 
Reel'd, as a footsore ox in crowded ways 
Stumbling aci'oss the market to his death, 
Unpitied ; for he groped as blind, and seem'd 
Alwa3's about to fall, grasping the pews 
And oaken finials till he touch'd the door; 
Yet to the lychgate, where his chariot stood, 
Strode from the porch, tall and erect again. 

But nevermore did either pass the gate 
Save under pall with bearers. In one month. 



756 AYLMER'S FIELD. 



Thro' weary and yet ever wearier hours, 

The childless mother went to seek her child; 

And when he felt the silence of his house 

About him, and the change and not the change, 

And those fixt eyes of painted ancestors 

Staring forever from their gilded walls 

On him their last descendant, his own head 

Began to droop, to fall; the man became 

Imbecile; his one word was " desolate; " 

Dead for two years before his death was he; 

But when the second Christmas came, escap'd 

His keepers, and the silence which he felt, 

To find a deepei' in the narrow gloom 

Bj' wife and child ; nor wanted at his end 

The dark retinue reverencing death 

At golden threshckls; nor from tender hearts. 

And those who sorrow'd o'er a vanish'd race, 

Pity, the violet on the tyrant's grave. 

Then the great Hall was wholly broken down, 

And the broad woodland parcell'd into farms; 

And where the two contriv'd their daughter's good, 

Lies the hawk's cast, the mole has made his run. 

The hedgehog underneath the plantain bores, 

The rabbit fondles his own harmless face. 

The slow-worm creeps, and the thin weasel there 

Follows the mouse, and all is open field. 




SEA DREAMS. 



i'Ol 



SEA DREAMS. 




CITY clerk, but gently born and bred; 
His wife, an unknown artist's orphan child — 
One babe was theirs, a Margaret, three year> old ; 
They, thinking that her clear germander eye 
Droopt in the giant-factoried citv-gloom, 
'■^■fi^ Came, with a month's leave given them, to the 
sea: 
For which his gains were dock'd, however small; 
Small were his gains, and hard his work; besides, 
fii;»Hl*, Their slender household fortunes (for the man 
M^ Had risk'd his little) like the little thrift, 
Trembled in perilous places o'er a deep; 
And oft, when sitting all alone, his face 
Would darken, as he curs'd his crcdulousness. 
And that one unctuous mouth which lured him, rogue. 
To buy strange shares in some Peruvian mine. 
Now seaward-bound for health they gain'd a coast, 
All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning cave. 
At close of day ; slept, woke, and went the next, 
The Sabbath, pious variers from the church. 
To chapel; where a heated pulpiteer. 
Not preaching simple Christ to simple men, 
Announc'd the coming doom, and fulminated 
Against the scarlet woman and her creed: 
For sideways up he swung his arms, and shriek'd, 
" Thus, thus, with violence," ev'n as if he held 
The Apocalyptic millstone, and himself 
Were that great Angel; " Thus with violence 
Shall Babylon be cast into the sea; 
Then comes the close." The gentle-hearted wife 
Sat shuddering at the ruin of a world; 
He at his own; but when the wordy storm 
Had ended, forth they came and paced the shore, 
Ran in and out the long sea-framing caves, 
Drank the large air, and saw, but scarce believ'd 
(The sootflake of so many a summer still 
Clung to their fiincies) that they saw, the sea. 



758 



SEA DREAMS. 



So now on sand they walk'd, and now on cliff, 

Lingering about the thymy promontories, 

Till all the sails were darken'd in the west, 

And rosed in the east: then homeward and to bed: 

Where she, wlio kept a tender CliriNtirm hope 

Haunting a holy text, and still to that 

Returning, as the bird returns, at night, 

" Let not the sun go down u))on your wrath." 

Said, " Love, forgive him: " but he did nrt speak; 

And silencM In that silence lav tlie wile, 

Remembering her dear Lord who died for all, 

And mu'iingon the little lives of men. 

Anil how they mar this little by their tends. 

But while the two were sleeping, a lull tide 
Rose v\ith ground-swell, which, on the foremost rocks 
Touching, upjetted in spirit of wild sea-smoke, 
And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam, and fell 
In vast sea-cataracts — ever and anon 




Dead claps of thunder from within the cliffs 

Heard thro' the living roar. At this the babe, 

Tlieir Margaret cradled near them, vvaii'd and woke 

The mother, and the father suddenly cried, 

♦' A wreck, a wreck!" then turn"d, and groaning said, 



" Forgive! How many will say, ' Forgive,' and find 
A sort of absolution in the sound 
To hate a little longer! No; the sin 
That neither God nor man can well forgive, 
Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once. 
Is it so true that second thoughts are best? 



SEA DREAMS. 759 



Not first, and tliivd, which are a riper first? 
Too ripe, too late! tlic}' come too late for use. 
Ah love, there surely lives in man and beast 
Something divine to warn them of their foes; 
And such a sense, when I first fronted him, 
Said 'Trust liim not;' but after, when I cnnie 
To know him more, 1 lost it, knew him less; 
Fought with what seem'd m\- own uncharity: 
Sate at his table; drank his costly wines; 
Made more and more allowance for his talk ; 
Went further, fool! and trusted him with all, 
All my poor scrapings from a dozen years 
Of dust and deskwork ; there is no such mine, 
None; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing gold. 
Nut making. Ruin'd! ruin'd! the sea roars 
Ruin: a fearful night!" 

"Not fearful; fair," 
Said the good wife, " if ever^' star in heaven 
Can make it fair: you do but hear the tide. 
Had you ill dreams? " 

" O yes," he said, " I dream'd 
Of such a tide swelling toward the land, 
And I from out the boundless outer deep 
Swept with it to the shore, and enter'd one 
Of those dark caves that run beneath the cliffs. 
I thought the motion of the boundless deep 
Bore through the cave, and I was heaved ujion it 
In darkness: then I saw one lovely star 
Larger and larger. ' What a world,' I thought, 
' To live in!' but in moving on I found 
Only the landward exit of the cave. 
Bright with the sun upon tiie stream beyond: 
And near the light a giant woman sat. 
All over earth}', like a piece of earth, 
A pickaxe in her hand: then out I slipt 
Into a land all sun and blossom, trees 
As high as heaven, and every bird that sings: 
And here the night-light flickering in my eyes 
Awoke me." 



" That was then your dream," she said, 
♦' Not sad, but sweet." 



760 SEA DREAMS. 



" So sweet, I lay," said he, 
"And mused upon it, drifting up the stream 
In fancy, till I slept again, and piercM 
The broken vision; for I dream'd tliat still 
The motion of tlie great deep bore me on. 
And that the woman walk'd upon the brink: 
I wonder'd at her strength, and ask'd her of it : 
'It came,' she said, ' by working in the mines:' 

then to ask her of my shares, I thought; 
And ask'd; but not a word; she shook her head. 
And then the motion of the current ceased. 
And there was rolling thunder; and we reach'd 
A mountain, like a wall of burrs and thorns; 
But she witii her strong feet up the steep hill 
Trod out a path: I follow'd; and at top 

She pointed seaward: there a fleet of glass. 

That seem'd a fleet of jewels under me, 

Sailing along before a gloomy cloud 

That not one moment ceased to thunder, past 

In sunshine; right across its track there lay, 

Down in the ^vater, a long reef of gold, 

■Or what seem'd gold : and I was glad at first 

To think that in our often-ransack'ti world 

Still so much gold was left; and then I fear'd 

Lest the gay navy there should splinter on it, 

And fearing waved ni)' arm to warn them off; 

An idle signal, for the brittle fleet 

.(I thought I could have died to save it) near'd, 

Touch'd, clink'd, and clash'd, and vanish'd, and I woke, 

1 heard the clash so clearly. Now I see 

My dream was Life; the woman honest Work; 
And my poor venture but a fleet of glass, 
Wieck'd on a reef of visionarj' gold." 

" Nay," said the kindly wife, to comfort him, 
•" You raised your arm, you tumbled down and broke 
The glass with little Margaret's medicine in it; 
And, breaking that, you made and broke your dream: 
A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks." 

*' No trifle," groan'd the husband; "yesterday 

I met him suddenly in the street, and ask'd 

That which I ask'd the woman in my dream. 

Like her, he shook his head. ' Show me the booksl* 




' And near the light a giant woman sat, 
All over earthy, like a piece of earth, 
A pickaxe in her hand." 

See page. -J ^q. 



S£A DREAMS. 761 



He dodg'd me with a long; and loose account. 

' The books, the books'! ' but he, he could not wait, 

Bound on a matter of life and death : 

When the great Books (sec Daniel seven and ten) 

Were open'd, I siioukl find he meant me well: 

And then began to bloat himself, and ooze 

All over with the fat affectionate smile 

That makes the widow lean. ' My dearest friend, 

Have failh, have faith! We live by faith,' said he; 

' And all things work together for the good 

Of those ' — it makes me sick to quote him — last 

Gript my hand hard, and with God-bless-you went. 

I stood like one that had received a blow: 

I found a hard friend in his loose accounts, 

A loose one in the hard grip of his hand, 

A curse in his God-bless-you : then my eyes 

Pursued him down the street, and far away 

Among the honest shoulders of the crowd. 

Read rascal in the motions of his back. 

And scoundrel in the supple-sliding knee." 

" Was he so bound, poor soul? " said the good wife; 
" So are we all : but do not call him, love, 
Before you prove him, rogue, and proved, forgive. 
His gain is loss; for he that wrongs his friend 
Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about 
A silent court of justice in his breast, 
Himself the judge and jury, and himself 
The prisoner at the bar, ever condemned : 
And that drags down his life: then comes what comes 
Hereafter: and he meant, he said he meant, 
Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, you well." 

" ' With all his conscience, and one eye askew ' — 
Love, let me quote these lines, that >ou may learn 
A man is likewise coimsel for himself. 
Too often, in that silent court of yours — 
' With all his conscience and one eye askew, 
So false, he partly took himself for true; 
Whose pious talk, when most his heart w^as dry, 
Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round his eye; 
Who, never naming God except for gain, 
So never took that useful name in vain; 
Made Him his catspaw and the Cross his tool, 



''62 S£A niiEAMS. 



And Christ the bait to trap his dupe and fool; 
Nor deeds of gilt, but gifts of grace he forged, 
And snakelike slimed his victim ere he gorged; 
Anil oft at Bible meetings, o'er the rest 
Arising, did his holy oilv best, 
Dropping the too rough H in Hell and Heaven, 
To spread the word by which himself had thriven.' 
How like you this old satire?" 

" Nay," she said, 
"I loathe it: he had never kindlv heart. 
Nor ever cared to better his own kind. 
Who first wrote satire with no pitv in it. 
But will you hear my dream, for I had one 
That altogether went to music? Still 
It awed me." 



Then she told it, having dream'd 
Of that same coast. 



" — But round the North, a light, 
A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapor, lav. 
And ever in it a low musical note 
Swell'd up and died; and, as it swell'il, a ridge 
Of breaker issued from the belt, and still 
Grew with the growing note, and when the note 
Had reach'd a thunderous fulness, on those cliffs 
Broke, inixt with awful light (the same as that 
Living within the belt) whereby she sa^v 
That all those lines of cliffs %vere cliffs no more. 
But huge cathedral fronts of every age, 
Grase, florid, stern, as far as eye could see. 
One after one: and then the great ridge drew. 
Lessening to the lessening music, back. 
And past into the belt and swell'd again 
Slowly to inusic: ever when it broke 
The statues, king or saint, or founder, fell; 
Then from the gaps and chasms of ruin left 
Came men and women in dark clusters round. 
Some cr\'ing ' Set them up! they shall not fall!' 
And others, 'Let them lie, for they liave fall'u.' 
And still the}' strove and wrangled: and she grieved 
Li her strange dream, she knew not why, to find 
Their wildest wailings never out of tune 



SEA DREAMS. 768 



With that sweet note; and ever as their shrieks 
Ran highest up the gamut, that great wave 
Returning, while none mark'd it, on the crowd 
Broke, mixt with awful light, and show'd their eyes 
Glaring, and passionate looks, and swept avva\- 
The men of flesh and blood, and men of stone, 
^"o the waste deeps together. 

" Then I fixt 
My wistful eyes on two fair images. 

Both crown'd with stars and high among the stars, 

The Virgin Mother standing with her child 

High up on one of those dark minster-fionts 

Till she began to totter, anil the cliild 

Clung to the mother, anil sent out a cry 

Which mixt with little Margaret's, and I woke. 

And my dream awed me: — well — but vyhat are dreams? 

"Yours came from the breaking of a glass, 

And mine but from the crving of a child." 

" Child? No! " said he, " but this tide's roar, and his. 
Our Boanerges, with his threats of doom, 
And loud-lung'd Antibabylonianisms 
( Altho' I grant but little music there) 
Went both to make your dream: but if there were 
A music harmonizing our wild cries, 
Sphere-music such as that j'ou dream'd about, 
Why, that would make our passions far too like 
The discords dear to the musician. No — 
One shriek of hate would jar all tlie hymns of heaven: 
True Devils with no ear, they howl in tune 
With nothing but the Devil!" 

" ' True' indeed ! 
One of our town, but later by an hour 
Here than ourselves, spoke with me on the shore; 
While you were running down the sands, and made 
The dimjoled flounce of the sea-furbelow flap. 
Good man, to please the child. She brought strange news. 
Why were you silent when I spoke to-night? 
I had set my heart on your forgiving him 
Before 3'ou knew. We must forgive the dead." 

" Dead ! who is dead ? " 



764 



SEA DREAMS. 



" The man j-our eye pursued. 
A little after you had parted with him, 
He suddenly dropt dead of heart-disease." 

"Dead? he? of heart-disease? what heart had he 
To die of? dead!" 

" Ah, dearest, if there be 
A devil in man, there is an angel loo, 
And if he did that wrong yow charge him with. 
His angel broke his heart. But your rough voice 
(You spoke so loud) has roused tlie child again. 
Sleep, little birdie, sleep! will she not sleep 
Without her ' little birdie?' well then, sleep, 
And I will sing vou 'birdie.'" 

Saying this. 
The woman half turn'd round from hmi she loved, 
Left him one hand, and reaching thro' the night 
Her other, found (for it was close beside) 
And half embrac'd the basket cradle-head 
With one soft arm, which, like the pliant bough 
That moving moves the nest and nestling, sway'd 
The cradle, while she sang this baby song. 



What does little birdie say 
In her nest at peep of day? 
Let me fly, says little birdie, 
Mother, let me flv away. 
Birdie, rest a little longer. 
Till the little wings are stronger, 
So she rests a little longer. 
Then she flies away. 

What does little baby say. 
In her bed at peep of day .' 
Baby says, like little birdie, 
Let ine rise and fly away. 
Baby, sleep a little longer, 
Till the little limbs are stronger, 
If she sleeps a little longer. 
Baby too shall fly away. 



' She sleeps: let us too, let all evil, sleep. 
He also sleeps — another sleep than ours. 



NORTHERN FARMER. 



765 



He can do no more wrong; forgive him, dear, 
And I shall sleep the sounder." 

Then the man, 
" His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come. 
Yet let your sleep for this one night be sound: 
I do forgive him! " 

"Thanks, my love," she said, 
« Your own will be the sweeter," and they slept. 



*=*$:t&*s5^ 



NORTHERN FARMER. 



OLD STYLE. 




HEER 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin' 'ere aloan? 
Noorse? thoort nowt o' a noorse; whoy. Doctor's 

abean on' agoan : 
Says that I moant 'a naw moor yaale: but 1 beant a 

fool : 
Git ma my yaale, fori beant a-goom' to break my rule. 

Doctors, they knaws nowt, for a savs what's nawways true: 
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things that a do. 
I've 'ed my pint o' yaale ivry noight sin' I bean 'ere, 
An' I 'vc 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for fo'ortv year 

Parson 's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin' 'ere o' my bed. 
" The amoighty 's a taakin' o' you to 'issen, my friend," 'a said. 
An' a towd ma my sins, an 's toithe were due, an' I gied it in hond; 
I done my duty hy un, as I 'a done by the lond. 



Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to larn. 
But a cost oop, thot a did, 'boot Bessy Marris's barn 



760 NORTHERN FARMER. 



Thof a knaws I hallus voated wi' Squoiie an' chooich an' staate, 
An' i' the woost o' times I wur niver agin the raate. 

An' I haUus corned to 's chooich afoor my Sally wur dead, 
An' 'eerd un a bummin' awaay loike a buzzard-clock * ower my yead, 
An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but I thowt a 'ad s,ummut to saay. 
An' I thowt & said whot a owt to a' said an' I coomed away. 

Bessy Marris's barn! tha knaws she laaid it to mea. 
Mowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, shea. 
'Siver, I kep un, my lass, tha mun undcrstond; 
I done my duty by un, as I 'a done by the lond. 

But Parson a conies an' a goos, an' a says it easy an' freea 

" The amoighty 's a taakin o' you to 'issen, my friend," says 'ea. 

I weant saay men be loiars, thof summun said it in 'aaste: 

But a reads wonn sarmin a weeak, an' I 'a stubb'd Thornaby waaste. 

D' ya moind the waaste, my lass? naw, naw, tha was not born then; 

Theer wur a boggle in it, I often ' crd un mysen: 

Moast loike a butter-bump, f for I 'eerd un aboot an aboot, 

But I stubb'd un oop wi' the lot, and raaved an' rembled un oot. 

Reaper's it wur; fo' they fun un theer a laaid on 'is foace 
I Doon i' the woil 'enemies J afore I corned to the plaace. 
Noaks or Thimblebj' — toner 'ed shot an as dead as a naail. 
Noaks wur 'ang'd fur it oop at 'soize — but git ma my yaale. 

Dubbut looak at the waaste: theer war n't not fead for a cow; 
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' looak at it now — 
War n't worth nowt a haacre, an' now theer 's lots o' feead, 
Fourscoore yows upon it an' some on it doon in secad. 

Nobbut a bit dh it 's left, an' I mean'd to 'a stubb'd it at fall, 
Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plow thruff it an' all, 
^f godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let ma aloan, 
Mea, wi' haate oonderd haacre o' Squoire's an' lond o' my oan. 

Do godamoighty knaw what a 's doing a-taakin' o' mea? 

I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an' yonder a pea; 

An' Squoire 'ull be sa mad an' all — a' dear a' dear! 

An' I 'a monaged for Squoire come Michaelmas thirty year. 



• Cockchafer. tBittern. JAnemones. 



NORTHERX FARMER. 



767 



A mowt 'a taaken Joaiies, as 'ant a 'aa2:)oith o' sense, 
Or a mowt 'a taaken Robins— a niver mended a fence: 
But godamoighty a moost taakc niea an' taakc ma now 
Wi' anf tlie cows to canvc an' Thornaby bolms to plow! 

Looak 'o\v quoloty smoiles when they seeas ma passin' by, 

Says to thessen naw doot " whot a men a be scwer-ly! " 

For they knaws what I bean to Squoire sin fust a coomcd to the 'All; 

I clone my duty by Squoire an' I done my duty bv all. 

Squoire 's in Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull 'a to wioite, 
For whoa 's to howd the lond ater mea thot muddles ma quoit; 
Sartin-sewcr I bea, thot a weant niver give it to Joanes, 
Noither a moant to Robins— a niver remblos the stoans. 

But summun '11 come ater mea mayhap wi' 'is kittle o' steam 
Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds wi' the Divil's onn team. 
Gin I mun doy I mun doy, an' loife they says is sweet. 
But gin I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear to see it. 

What atta stannin' theer for, an' doesn bring ma the yaale? 
Doctor 's a tottler, lass, and a 's hallus i' the own taale: 
I weant break rules fur Doctor, a knaws naw moor nor a flov; 
Git ma my yaale I tell tha, an' gin I mun doy I mun dov. 



^Sx«^g.«= 



NORTHERN FARMER. 



NEW STVI^E. 

^^LOSN'T thou 'car my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaav? 

i| P''oputty, proputty, jjroputty — that's what I 'ears 'em saay. 
"^ Pi-oputty, proputty, proputty— Sam, thou's an ass for thy paains 
Theer's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs nor in all thy braains. 

Woa — theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, Sam: yon 's parson's 'ouse- 
Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be eather a man or a mouse? 
Time to think on it then; for thou'll be twentv to weeak.* 
Proputty, proputty— woa then woa — let ma 'ear mysen speak. 




*This week. 



768 NORTHERN FARMER. 



Me an' th}' miither, Samm)-, 'as bean a-talkin' o' thee; 
Thou's bean talkin' to muther, an' she bean a telHn it me. 
Thou'll not marry for munny — thou's sweet upo' parson's lass— 
Noa — thou'll marry for kivv — an' we boath on us thinks tlia an ass. 

Seea'd her todaay goa by — Saaint's daay — they was ringing the hells. 
She's a beauty thou thinks — an' soa is scoors o' gells, 
Them as 'as munny an' all — wot 's a beauty? — the flower as blaws. 
But proputty, proputty sticks, an' jDropulty, proputty graws. 

Do'ant be stunt:* taake time: I knavvs what maakes tha sa mad. 
Warn't I craazed fur the lasses mysen when I wur a lad? 
But I knaw'd a Quaaker feller as often 'as towd ma this: 
"Doant thou marry for munnj', but goa whcer munny is! " 

An' I went wheer munnv war: an' thy muther coom to 'and, 

Wi' lots o' munny laaid by, an' a nicetish bit o' land. 

Maybe she ^vaarn't a beauty: — I niver give it a thowt — 

But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as a lass as 'ant nowt? 

Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weant 'a no\vt when 'e 's dead, 
Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and addle"}- her bread: 
Why? fur e' 's nobbut a curate, an' \veant niver git naw 'igherj 
An' 'e maade the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 'c coom'd to the shire. 

An' thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' 'Varsity debt, 
Stook to his taail they did, an' 'e 'ant got shut on 'em yet. 
An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi' noan to lend 'im a shove, 
Woorse nor a far-welter'dj yowe: fur Sammv, 'e married fur luvv. 

Luvv? What's luvv? thou can luvv thy lass an' her munny too, 
Maakin' 'em goa togither as they've good right to tlo. 
Coukl'n I luvv th\- muther by cause o' 'er munny laid by? 
Naay — for I luvv'd 'er a vast sight moor fnr it: reason why. 

Ay an' thv muther says thou wants to marry the lass, 
Comes of a gentleman burn: an' we boath on us thinks tha an ass. 
Woa then, proputty, wiltha? — an ass as near as mays nowt|| — 
Woa then, wiltha? dangtha! — the bees is as fell as owt.g 

♦Obstinate, t Earn. J Or lo\v-\velter\l— said of a sheep lying on its back in a furrow. 
I Makes nothing. § The flies are as fierce as anything. 



ItESQU/ESCAT. 



76a 



Break me a bit o' the esh for his 'ead, lad, out o' the fence! 
Gentleman burn! what 's gentleman burn: is it shillins an pence? 
Proputty, proputty 's ivrything 'ere, an', Sammy, I'm blest 
If it isn't the saame cop yonder, fur them as 'as it 's the best. 

Tis'n Ihem as 'as munny as breaks into 'ouses an' steals, 
Them as 'as coats to their backs an' taakes their regular meals. 
Noa, but it's them as niver knaws wheer a meal 's to be 'ad. 
Taake my word fur it, Sammy, the poor in a loomp is bad. 

Them or thir feythers, tha sees, niun 'a bean a lazy lot. 
Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' whiniver munny was got. 
Feyther 'ad ammost nowt; leastwaays 'is munny was 'id 
But 'c tued an' moil'd issen dead, an' 'e died a good un, 'e did. 

Looak thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck comes out by the 'ill! 
Feyther run up to the farm, an' I runs up to the mill; 
An' I'll run up to the brig, an' that thou'U live to see; 
An' if thou marries a good un I'll leave the land to thee. 

Thim's my noations, Sammy, wheerby I means to stick; 

But if thou marries a bad un, I'll leave the land to Dick. 

Coom oop, proputty, proputty — that's what I 'cars 'im saa)- — 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — canter an' canter awaay. 



5K^iC$«C:S«— ■ 



REQUIESCAT. 



PAIR is her cottage in its place, 
^^ Where yon broad water sweetly, slowly glides. 
^ mit sees itself from thatch to base 
Dream in the sliding tides. 

And fairer she, but ah, how soon to die! 

Her quiet dream of life this hour ma\ cease. 
Her peaceful being slowly passes by 
To some more perfect peace. 




49 



iio 



TITHONUCi 



TITHONUS. 




!^HE woods decay, the woods decaj- and foil, 
The vapors ^veep tlieir burthen to the around, 
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, 
And after many a snmmer dies the swan. 
IMe onh' cruel immortality ^ 

Consumes: I wither slowlv in thine arms, 
Here at the quiet limit of the \vorld, 
■white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream 
ever silent spaces of the East, 
folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. 

Alas! for this gray shado\v, once a man — 
glorious in his beautv and thy choice, 
madest him thv chosen, that he seemVl 
is great heart none other than a God! 
'd thee " Give me immortality." 
Then didst thou grant mine asking -with a smile. 
Like wealthy men who care not how thev give. 
But thy strong Hours indignant work'd their wills. 
And beat me down and marred and wasted me, 
And tho' the}' could not end me, left me maim'd 
To dwell in presence of immortal youth. 
Immortal age beside immortal vouth, 
And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love, 
Th}' beautv make amends, the' even now, 
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide. 
Shine in those tremulous eves that fill with tears 
To hear me.'' Let me go: take back thv gift: 
Why should a man desire in any way 
To vary from the kindly race of men, 
Or pass be3'ond the goal of ordinance 

Where all should pause, as is most meet for all.' 



A soft air fans the cloud apart: thcie comes 
A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. 
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals 
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, 



liTHOXyriJS. 771 



And bosom beating with a heart rcnew'd. 
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom. 
Til}- sM-ect e_ves brighten slowly close to mine. 
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team 
Whicii lo\ e thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, 
And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes, 
And beat the twilight into flakes of tire. 

Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful 
In silence, then before thine answer given 
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. 

Wh\- wilt thou ever scare me with thv tears, 
And make me tremble lest a saving learnt 
In days far-ofli", on that tiark earth, be true? 
" Tlie Gods themsches cannot recall their gifts." 

Ay me! ay me I with what another heart 
In days far-off, and with what other eves 
I used to watch — if I be he that watch'd — 
The lucid outline forming round thee; saw 
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings; 
Chang'd with thy mystic change, and felt mv blcK r 
Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lav, 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-waiin 
With kisses balmier than half-opening buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd 
Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet. 
Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing. 
While Uion like a mist rose into towers. 

Yet hold me not forever in thine East; 
How can my natui'c longer mix with thine? 
Coldly thv rosy shadows bathe me, cold 
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet 
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam 
Floats up from those dim fields about the homes 
Of happ\- men that have the power to die, 
And grassy barrows of tlie happier dead. 
Release me, and restore me to the ground; 
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave: 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn i>y morn; 



772 



THE '^nVAOS 



I earth in earth forget these empty courts. 
And thee returning on thy silver wheels. 



->j=;«$;t&«;^<— ■ 




7'HE VOTAGE. 



E left behind the painted buoy 

That tosses at the harbor-mouth: 
And madly danced our hearts with joy, 

As fast we fleeted to the South: 
How fresh was every sight and sound 

On open main or winding shore! 
We knew the merry world was round, 

And we might sail forevermorc. 

Warm broke the breeze against the brow. 

Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail: 
The Lady's-head upon the prow 

Caught the shrill salt, and sheerVi tht gale. 
The broad seas swcU'd to meet the keel, 

And swept behind: so quick the run. 
We felt the good ship shake and reel, 
We seenrd to sail into the Sun! 



How oft we saw the Sun retire, 

And burn the threshold of the night, 
Fall from his ocean-lane of fire. 

And sleep beneath his pillar'd light I 
How oft the purple-skirted robe 

Of twilight slowly do^vnward drawn. 
As thro' the slumber of the globe 

Asrain we dash'd into the daw-n ! 



New stars ; '1 night above the brim 
Of waters lighten'd into view: 

They climb\l as quickly, for the rim 
Changed ever\- moment as we flew. 

Far ran the naked moon across 

The houseless ocean's heaving fleld. 



THE VOYAGE. 



'm 



Or flying shone, the silver hoss 
Of her own halo's dusky shield; 

The peaky islet sliifted shapes, 

High towns on hills were dimly seen, 
We past long lines of Northern capes 




And dewy Northern meadows green. 
We came to warmer ^va\'es, and deep 

Across the boundless East ^ve dro^'e, 
Where those long swells of breaker s^veep 

The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. 

By peaks that flam'd, or, all in shade, 

Gloom'd the low coast and quivering brine 
With ashv rains, that spreading made 

Fantastic plume or sable pine ; 
By sands and streaming flats, and floods 

Of mighty mouth, 'we scudded fast. 
And hills and scarlet-mingled woods 

Glow'd for a moment as we past. 

O hundred shores of happv climes. 

How swiftly stream'd ye by the bark! 
At times the wliole sea burn'd, at times 

With wakes of tire we tore the dark; . 
At times the carven craft would shoot 

From havens hid in fairy bowers, 
With naked limbs and flowers and fruit. 

But we nor paused for fruits nor flowers. 



For one fair \'ision ever fled 

Down the waste waters day and night, 



7T-t THE VOrAGE. 



And still we follow'd vvhei'e she led 
In hope to gain upon hei' flight. 

Her face was evermore unseen, 
And fixt upon the far sea-line; 

But each man murmured, "O my Queen, 
I follow till I make thee mine." 

And now we lost her, now she gleam'd 

Like Fancy made of golden air. 
Now nearer to the prow she seem'd 

Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair. 
Now high on waves that idly burst 

Like Heavenh' Hope she crown'd the sea. 
And now, the bloodless point revers'd, 

She bore the blade of Liberty. 

And only one among us — him 

We pleas'd not — he was seldom pleas'd: 
He saw not fiir: his ej'es were dim: 

But ours he swore was all diseas'd, 
" A ship of fools," he shriek'd in spite, 

" A ship of fools," he sncer'd and wept. 
And overboard one stormy night 

He cast his body, and on we swept. 

And never sail of ours was fui I'd 

Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn; 
We loved the glories of the world. 

But laws of nature were our scorn ; 
For blasts would rise and rave and cease. 

But whence were those that drove the sail 
Across the whirlwind's heart of peace. 

And to and thro' the counter-gale.' 

Again to colder climes wc came, 

For still we follow'd where she led: 
Now mate is blind and captain lame. 

And half the crew arc sick or dead. 
But blind or lame or sick or sound, 

We follow'd that which flics before; 
We know the merry world is round, 

And we may sail forevermore. 



LUCRETIUS. 



i iO 




LUCRETIUS. 



UCILIA, wedded to Lucretius, found 

Her master cold; for when tlie moiiiing flush 
Of passion and the first embrace had died 
^X'j Between them, tho' he loved her none the less, 
-A^>)^Yet often when the women heard his foot 
< -,4j\^Returning from pacings in the field, and ran 
To greet him with a kiss, the master took 
<S' Small notice, or austerel}-, for — his mind 
Halt-buried in some weightier argument. 
Or fancy-borne perhaps ujion the rise 
And long roll of the Hexameter — he past 
To turn and ponder those three hundred scrolls 
Left b}' the Teacher whom he held divine. 
She brooked it not; but wrathful, petulant. 
Dreaming some rival, sought and found a witch 
Who brew'd the philtre which had power, the\- said, 
To lead an errant passion home again. 
And this, at times, she mingled with his drink, 
And this destroved him; for the wicked broth 
Confus'd the chemic labor of the blood, 
And tickling the brute brain within the man's. 
Made havoc among those tender cells, and check'd 
His power to shape: he loath'd himself; and once 
After a tempest woke upon a morn 
Thatmock'd him with returning calm, and cried: 



« Storm in the night! for thrice I heard the rain 
Rushing; and once the flash of a thunderbolt — 
Methought I never saw so fierce a fork — 
Struck out the streaming mountain-side, and show'd 
A riotous confluence of watercourses 
Blanching and billowing in a hollow of it. 
Where all but yester-eve was dusty-dry. 



" Storm, and what dreams, ye holy Gods, what dreams! 
For tlirice I v.aken'd after dreams. Perchance 
We do but recollect the dreams that come 



776 LUCRETIUS. 



Just ere the waking: terrible! for it seemVl 

A void was made in Nature; all her bonds 

Crack'd; and I saw the flaring atom-streams 

And torrents of her myriad universe, 

Ruining along the illimitable inane, 

Fly on to clash together again, and make 

Another and another frame of things 

Forever: that was mine, my dream, I knew it — 

Of and belonging to me, as the dog 

With inward yelp and restless forefoot plies 

His function of the woodland; but the next! 

I thought that all the blood by Sylla shed 

Came driving rainlike down again on earth, 

And where it dash'd the reddening meadow, sprang 

No dragon warriors from Cadmcan teeth, 

For these I thought my ilreani would show to me, 

But girls, Hetairai, curious in their art. 

Hired animalisms, vile as those that made 

The mulberry-faced Dictator's orgies worse 

Than aught they fable of the cjuiet Gods. 

And hands they mixt, and yelTd and round me drove 

In narrowing circles till I yell\l again, 

Half-suftbcated, and sprang up, and saw — 

Was it the first beam of my latest day? 

" Then, then, from utter gloom stood out the breasts, 
The breasts of Helen, and hovcringl_v a sword 
Now over and now under, now direct. 
Pointed itself to pierce, but sank down shamed 
At all that beauty; and as I stared, a fire. 
The fire that left a roofless Ilion, 
Shot out of them, and scorch'd me that 1 woke. 

" Is this thy vengeance, holy Venus, thine. 
Because I would not one of thine own doves, 
Not ev'n a rose, were ofFer'd to thee? thine, 
Forgetful how my rich procemion makes 
Thy glory fly along the Italian field. 
In lays that will outlast thy Deity? 

"Deitv? nay, thv worshippers. My tongue 
Trips, or I speak profanely. Which of these 
Angers thee most, or angers thee at all? 
Not if thou be'st of those who, far aloof 



LUCRETIUS. 



777 



From envy, hate and pity, and spite and scorn. 
Live the great life which all our greatest fain 
Would follow, centr'd in eternal calm. 

" Nay, if thou canst, O Goddess, like ourselves 
Touch, and he touch'd, then would I cry t<.i thee 
To Uiss thy Mavors, roll thv tender arms 
Round him, and keep him from the lust of hlood 
That makes a steaming slaughter-house of Rome. 

" Ay, hut I meant not thee; I meant not her, 
Whom all the pines of Ida shook to see 
Slide from that quiet heaven of hers, and tempt 
The Trojan, while his neat-herds were abroad; 
Nor her tliat o'er her wounded hunter wept 
Her Deity false in human-amorous tears: 
Nor whom her heardiess apple-arbiter 
Decided fairest. Rather, O ye Gods, 
Poet-like, as tine great Sicilian call'd • 
Calliope to grace his golden verse — 
Ay, and this Kypris also — did I take 
That popular name of thine to shadow forth 
The all-generating powers and genial heat 
Of Nature, when she strikes thro' the thick l.ilood 
Of cattle, and light is large, and lamlis are glad 
Nosing the mother's udder, and the bird 




Makes his heart voice amid tne blaze of flowers: 
Which things appear the work of mighty Gods. 



1"'^ LVCRETtUS. 



"The Gods! and if I go mv work is left 
Unfinish'd — if I go. Tlie Gods, wlio haunt 
Tlie hicid interspace of world and world, 
Where never creeps a cloud, or moves a wind, 
Nor ever tails the least white star of snow. 
Nor ever lowest roll of thunder moans, 
Nor sound of human sorrow mounts to mar 
Their sacred everlasting calm! and such. 
Not all so fine, nor so divine a calm. 
Not such, nor all unlike it, man may gain 
Letting his own life go. The Gods, the Gods! 
If all be atoms, how then should the Gods 
Being atomic not be dissoluble, 
Not follow the great law.' My master held 
That Gods there are, for all men so believe. 
I prest my footsteps into his, and meant 
Surely to lead my Memmius in a train 
Of flowery clauses onward to the proof 
That Gods there are, and deathless. Meant? I meant? 
I have forgotten what I meant: my mind 
Stumbles, and all mv faculties are lamed. 

" Look where another of our Gods, the Sun, 
Apollo, Delius, or of older use 
All-seeing Hyperion — what you will — 
Has mounted yonder: since he never sware, 
Except his wrath were wreak'd on wretched man, 
That he would only shine among the dead 
Hereafter; tales! for never yet on earth 
Could dead flesh creep, or bits of roasting ox 
Moan round the spit — nor knows he what he sees; 
King of the East altho' he seem, and girt 
With song and flame and fragrance, slowh' lifts 
His golden feet on those empurpled stairs 
That climb into the windy halls of heaven: 
And here he glances on an eye new-born. 
And gets for greeting but a wail of pain; 
And here he stays U]5on a freezing orb 
That fain would gaze upon him to the last; 
And here upon a yellow eyelid falTn 
And closed bv those who mourn a friend in vain; 
Not thankful that his troubles are no more. 
And me, altho' his fire is on my face 
Binding, he sees not, nor at all can tell 
Whether I mean this day to end myself, 



LUCRETIUS. 779 



Or lend an ear to Plato where he says, 

That men like soldiers may not quit the post 

Allotted h\ the Gods: but he that holds 

The Gods are careless, wherefore need he care 

Greatly for them, nor rather plunge at once, 

Being troubled, wholly out of sight, and sink 

Past earthquake— ay, and gout and stone, that break 

Body toward death, and palsy, death-in-lifc. 

And wretched age — and worst disease of all, 

These prodigies of myriad nakedness. 

And twisted shapes of lust, unspeakable, 

Abominable, strangers at my hearth 

Not welcome, harpies miring every dish. 

The phantom husks of something foully done. 

And fleeting thro' the boundless universe. 

And blasting the long quiet of my breast 

With animal heat and dire insanity? 

« How should the mind, except it.lovcd them, clasp 
These idols to herself? or do they fly 
Now thinner, and now thicker, like the flakes 
In a fall of snow, and so press in, perforce 
Of multitude, as crowds that in an hour 
Of civic tumult jam the doors, and bear 
The keepers down, and throng, their rags and they, 
The basest, far into tliat council-hall 
Where sit the best and stateliest of the land? 

" Can I not fling this horror off me again. 
Seeing with how great ease Nature can smile, 
Balmier and nobler from her bath of storm, 
At random ravage? and how easily 
The mountain there has cast his cloudy slough, 
Now towering o'er him in serenest aii-, 
A mountain o'er a mountain, — ay, and within 
All hollow as the hopes and fears of men. 

" But who was he that in the garden snared 
Picus and Faunus, rustic Gods? a tale 
To laugh at — more to laugh at in myself— 
For look! what is it? there? yon arbutus 
Totters; a noiseless riot underneath 

Strikes through the wood, sets all the tops quivering 

The mountain quickens into Nymph and Faun ; 



780 



L UCRETIUS. 



And here an Oieati — how the sun delights 

To glance and shift about her slippery sides, 

And rosy knees and supple roundedness, 

And budded bosom-peaks — who this way runs 

Before the rest — A satyr, a satyr, see. 

Follows; but him I proved impossible; 

Twv-natured is no nature: yet he draws 

Nearer and nearer, and I scan him now 

Beastlier than anv phantom of his kind 

That ever butted his rough brother-brute 

For lust or lusty blood or provender; 

I half, al)hor, spit, sicken at him; and she 

Loathes him as well; such a precipitate heel. 

Fledged as it were with Mercury's ankle-wing, 

Whirls her to me: but will she fling herself, 

Shameless upon me? Catch her, goatfoot: nav. 

Hide, hide them, miilion-myrtled wilderness, 

And cavern-shadowing laurels, hide! do I wish — 

What? — that the bush were leafless? or to whelm 

All of them in one massacre? O ye Gods, 

I know you careless, vet, behold, to you 

From childly wont and ancient use I call — 

I thought I lived securely as yourselves — 

No lewdness, narrowing-envv, monkey-spite. 

No madness of ambition, avarice, none: 

No larger feast than luider plane or pine 

With neighbors laid along the grass, to take 

Only sucii cups as lett us friendly warm, 

Aflirming each his own philosophy — 

Nothing to mar the sober majesties 

Of settled, sweet. Epicurean life. 

But now it seems some unseen monster lays 

His vast and filthy hands upon my will. 

Wrenching it backward into his: and spoils 

My bliss in being; and it was not great: 

For save when shutting reasons up in rhythm, 

Or Heliconian honey in living words, 

To make a Iruth less harsh, I often grew 

Tired of so much within our little life, 

Or of so little in our little life — 

Poor little life that toddles half an hour 

Crown'd with a flower or two, and there an end — 

And since the nobler pleasure seems to fatle, 

Why should I, beastlike as I find myseltj 

Not manlike end myself? — our privilege — 



LUCRETIUS. 781 



What beast has heart to do it? And what man, 

What Roman would be dragg'd in triumph thus? 

Not I; not he, who bears one name with her 

Whose deatii-blow struck the dateless doom of kings. 

When, brooking not the Tarquin in her veins, 

She made her blood in sight of CoUatine 

And all his peers, flushing the guiltless air. 

Spoilt from the maiden fountain in her heart. 

And from it sprang the Commonwealth, which breaks 

As I am breaking now! 



" And therefore now 
Let her, that is the womb and tomb of all, 
Great Nature, take, and forcing far apart 
Those blind beginnings that have made me m.iu. 
Dash them anew together at her will 
Thro' all her cycles — into man once more, 
Or beast or bird or fish, or opulent flower: 
But till this cosinic order evervwhoi-e 
Shatter'd into one earthquake in one day 
Cracks all to pieces, — and that hour perhaps 
Is not so f;ir when momentary man 
Shall seem no more a something to himself. 
But he, his hopes and hates, liis homes and fanes, 
And even his bones loag laid within the grave. 
The verj' sides of the grave itself shall pass. 
Vanishing, atom and void, atom and void, 
Into the unseen forever, — till tiiat hour. 
My golden work in which I told a truth 
That stays the rolling Ixionian wheel, 
And numbs the Fury's ringlet-snake, and plucks 
The mortal soul from out immortal hell, 
Shall stand: ay, surely; then it fails at last 
And perishes as I must; for O Thou, 
Passionless bride, divine Tranquillity, 
Yearn'd after by the wisest of the wise, 
Who fail'd to find thee, being as thou ax't 
Without one pleasure and without one pain, 
Howbeit I know thou surely must bo mine 
Or soon or late, yet out of season, thus 
I woo thee roughlj', for thou carest not 
How roughl}- men may woo thee so they win — 
Thus — thus: the soul flies out and dies in the air." 



782 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM. 



With th;it he drove the Unite into liis side: 
Siie heard him raging, heard liim t.ill; ran in, 
Beat breast, tore hair, cried out upon liersclf 
As ha\'!ng fail'd in duty to liini, shriei<\i 
That sine but meant to win iiim back, fell on him, 
Clasp'd, kiss'd him, wail'd : he answer'd, "Care not thou! 
Thy duty? What is duty? Fare thee well! " 



•»45=:5Si$:t&»;^<— 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM. 




WWSL sun, the ukjou, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains — 
>Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns? 



Is not the Vision He? tho' He be not that which he seems? 
Dreams are true while thev last, and do \ve not live in dreams? 

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb. 
Are they not sign and s^-mbol of thy division from Him? 

Dark is the world to thee: thyself art the reason why? 

For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel " I am I? '* 

Glory about thee, without thee; and thou fulfillest thy doom 
Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled splendor and gloom. 

Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spiiit with Spirit can meet- 
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. 

God is law, say the wise; O Soul, and let us rejoice, 
For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice. 

Law is God, say some: no God at all, says the fool; 

For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a pool; 



And the ear of man cannot hear and the eye of man cannot see; 
But if we could see and hear, this Vision — were it not He? 



THE NEW TIM ON AND THE POETS. 



783 



THE NE W TIMON AND THE POETS, f 



E know him, out of Shakespeare's art, 

And those fine curses which he spoke ; 
The old Timon, with his noble heart. 
That, strongly loathing, greatly broke. 

So (lied the Old : here comes the New. 
Regard him; a familiar face: 
I thought we knew him : What, it's you 
The padded man— that wears the stays 

Who killed the girls and thrilled the boys 
With dandy pathos when you wrote! 

A Lion, you, that made a noise. 
And shook a mane en papillotes. 




And once you tried the Muses too; 

You failed. Sir; therefore now you turn, 
To fall on those who are to you 

As Captain is to Subaltern. 

But men of long-enduring hopes, 

And careless what tliis hour may brino-. 

Can pardon little would-be Popes 

And Brummels, when they try to sting. 

An Artist, Sir, should rest in Art, 
And waive a little of his claim; 

To have the deep poetic heart 
Is more than all poetic fame. 



But you. Sir, you are hard to please; 

You never look but half content; 
Nor like a gentleman at ease. 

With moral breadth of temperament. 



* Published in Punc/i, February, 1846, signed " Alcibiades." 



784 



THE SKIPPING-ROPE. 



And \vhat with spites and what with tears, 

You cannot let a body be: 
It's always ringing in your ears, 

" They call this man as good as me" 

What profits now to understand 
The merits of a spotless shirt — 

A dapper boot — a little hand — 
If half the little soul is dirt? 

Tou talk of tinsel! why we see 

The old mark of rouge upon your cheeks. 
Tou prate of Nature! you are he 

That spilt his life about the cliques. 

A TiMON you! Nay, nav, for shame: 

It looks too arrogant a jest — 
The fierce old man — to take his name, 

You bandbox. Off, and let him rest. 



sje^ItS-^t 



THE SKIPPING-ROPE. 




^URE never yet was Antelope 
Could skip so lightly by. 
Stand off, or else my skipping-rope 

Will hit you in the eye. 
How lightly whirls the skipping-rope! 
How fairy-like you fly! 
Go, get you gone, you muse and mope — 

I hate thai silly sigh. 
Na}', dearest, teach me how to hope, 

Or tell me how to die. 
There, take it, lake my skipping-rope, 
And hang yourself thereby. 



ON A MOURNER. 



785 



ON A MOURNER. 



ATURE, so far as in her lies, 

Imitates God, and tnrns her face 
To every land beneath the skies, 

Counts nothing that she meets with base, 
.^— %>^v ''^j^.l>ut lives and loves in every place; 




Fills out the homely quick-set screens. 
And makes the purple lilac ripe. 
Steps from her airy hill, and greens 

The swamp, where hums the dropping snipe, 
With moss and braided marish-pipe: 

''■ ri© 
J |p-*>*A5 And on thy heart a finger lays, 

■»*■ lA'fc '^ Saying, '-Beat quicker, for the time 

Is pleasant, and the woods and ways 

Are pleasant, and the beech and lime 

Put forth and feel a gladder clime." 



And murmurs of a deeper voice. 
Going before to some far shrine. 

Teach that sick heart the stronger choice, 
Till all thy life one way incline 
With one wide will that closes thine. 

And when the zoning eve has died 

Wheie yon dark valleys wind forlorn. 

Come Hope and Meinory, spouse and bride. 
From out the borders of the morn, 
Witli that fair child betwixt them born. 



50 



And wlien no mortal motion jars 

The blackness round the toinbing sod, 

Thro' silence and the trembling stars 

Comes Faith from tracts no feet have trod, 
And Virtue, like a household god, 



THE FLOWER. 



Promising empire; such as those 
' That once at dead of night did greet 

Troy's wandering prince, so that he rose 
With saci-ifice, while all the fleet 
Had rest 1)V stony hills of Crete. 



->$=«^S«=S«- 



THE FLOWER. 



% 



1^1 NCE in a golden hour 
I cast to earth a seed. 
Up there came a flower, 
'I'he people said, a weed. 

To and fro they went 

Thro' mv garden-bowir, 

And muttfiing discontent 
CnrsM niL- and mv flower. 




Then it grew so tall 

It wore a crown of light, 

But thieves from o'er the wall 
Stole the seed by night. 

Sow'd it far and wide 

Bv every town and tower. 

Till all the people cried, 
" Splendid is the flower." 

Read my little foble: 
He that runs may read. 

Most can raise the flowers now. 
For all have jot the seed. 



And some are pretty enough. 
And some are poor indeed; 

And now again the people 
Call it but a weed. 



THE CAPTAIX. 



THE CAPTAIX. 



A LEGEND OF THE NAVY, 




E that only rules by terror 
Doeth grievous wrong. 
Deep as Hell I count his error. 
Let him hear niv song. 
IJl" Brave the Captain was: tiie seamen 

' Gallant sons of English freemen, 
.^ Sailors bold and true. 
3^ But they hated his oppression, 

Stern he was and rash; 
.So for every light transgression 

Doom'd them to the lash. 
Day by day more harsh and cruel 

Seem'd the Captain's mood. 
Secret wrath, like smother'd fuel 

Burnt in each man's blood. 
Yet he hoped to purchase glory. 

Hoped to make the name 
Of his vessel great in story, 

Whereso'er he came. 
So they past by capes and islands. 

Many a harbor-mouth. 
Sailing under palmy highlands 

Far within the South. 
On a dav when they ^vere going 

O'er the lone expanse, 
In the North, her canvas flowing. 

Rose a ship of France. 
T!ien the Captain's color lieigiiten'd, 

Joyful came his speech: 
But a cloudy gladness lighten'd 

In the eyes of each. 
"Chase," he said: the ship flew forward. 

And the wind did blow: 



THE CAPTAIN. 



Stately, lightly, went she Norward., 

Till she near'd the foe. 
Then they look'd at him they hated. 

Had what they desired: 
Mute with folded arms they waited — 

Not a gun -was tired. 
But they heard the foeman's thunder 

Roaring out their doom; 
All the air was torn in sunder, 




"^«=iii- 



Crashing Avent the boom, 
Spars were splinter'd, decks were shattcr'd. 

Bullets fell like rain; 
Over mast and deck were scatter'd 

Blood and brains of men. 
Spars were splinter'd: decks were broken: 

Every mother's son — 
Down they dropt — no word was spoken — 

Eacii beside his gun. 
On the decks as they were lying. 



THE RINGLET. "89 



Were their faces grim. 
In their bh^od', as they lay dying, 

Did they smile on him. 
Those, in whom he had reliance 

For his noble name, 
With one smile of still defiance 

Sold him unto shame. 
Shame and wrath his heart confounded, 

Pale he turn'd and red. 
Till himself was deadly wounded 

Falling on the dead. 
Dismal error! Fearful slaughter! 

Years have wander'dby, 
Side by side beneath the water 

Crew and Captain lie; 
There the sunlit ocean tosses 

O'er them mouldering, 
And the lonely seabird crosses 

With one waft of the wing. 



-o53*Si:$-SS5«- 



THE RINGLET. 



yoi^jta T 



m 



^M^OUR ringlets, 3'our ringlets, 



That look so golden-gay, 
If you will give me one, but one. 

To kiss it night and day, 
Then never cliilling touch of Time 
Will turn it silver-gray; 
And then shall I know it is all true gold 
To flame and sparkle and stream as of old, 
Till all the comets in heaven are cold. 

And all her stars decay." 
" Then take it, love, and put it by; 
This cannot change, nor yet can I." 

" My rmglet, my ringlet. 

That art so golden-gav. 
Now never chilling touch of Time 

Can turn thee silver-gray; 



790 THE RINGLET. 



And a lad maj' wink, and a girl may hint, 

And a fool may say his say; 
For my doubts and fears were all amiss, 
And I svveai henceforth by tliis and this, 
That a doubt will only come for a kiss. 

And a fear to be kiss'd away." 
" Then kiss it, love, and put it by: 
If this can change, why so can I." 



II. 



Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

I kiss'd you night and day, 
And Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You still are golden gay. 
But Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You should be silver-gray: 
For what is this which nov/ I'm told, 

1 that took 3'ou for true gold. 

She that gave you 's bought antl sold, 
Sold, sold. 

O Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She blush'd a rosy red. 
When Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She dipt you from her head. 
And Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She gave you me and said, 
"Come, kiss it, love, and put it by: 
If this can change, why so can I." 
O fie, you golden nothing, fie, 

You golden lie. 

O Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

I count you much to blame. 

For Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You put me much to shame. 

So Ringlet, O Ringlet, 
I doom you to the flame. 

For what is this which now I learn. 

Has given all my faith a turn? 

Burn, you glossy heretic, burn, 

Burn, burn. 



THE ISLET. 



791 



THE ISLET. 



WiW\ HITHER, O whither, love, shall we go, 

For a score of sweet little summers or so? " 
-.--) The sweet little wife of the singer said, 
yOn the clay that foUow'd the day she was wed 
^ " Whither, O whither, love, shall we go?" 
And the singer shaking his curlv head 
Turn'd as he sat, and struck the keys 
There at his right with a sudden crash. 
Singing, " And shall it be over the seas 
With a crew that is neither rude nonash 
But a bevy of Eroses apple-clieek'd. 
In a shallop of crystal ivory-beak'd, 
With a satin sail of a ruby glow'. 
To a sweet little Eden en earth that I know, 




i!^<-^_ 



«rt^!»Hfe- 




■r -»^ 



A mountain islet pointed and peak'd; 
Waves on a diamond shingle dash, 
Cataract brooks to the ocean run, 
Fairily-delicate palaces shine 
Mixt with mvrtle and clad with vine, 



792 WAGES. 



And overstream'd and silvery-stieak'd 
With many a rivulet high against the sun 
The facets of the glorious mountain flash 
Above the vallej-s of palm and pine." 

" Thither, O thither, love, let us go." 

" No, no, no! 

For in all that exquisite isle, my dear. 
There is but one bird with a musical throat, 
And his compass is but of a single no'te. 
That it makes one weary to hear." 

" Mock me not! mock me not! love, let us go." 

" No, love, no. 

For the bud ever breaks into bloom on the tree. 
And a storm never wakes on the lonely sea. 
And a worm is there in the lonel}' wood. 
That pierces the liver and blackens the blood, 
And makes it a sorrow to be." 



■»Js*$;iS*KS*«" 



WAGES. 




LORY of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song. 
Paid with a voice flying to be lost on an endless sea — 

Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right the wrongs 
Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no lover of glory she: 

Give her the glory of going on, and still to be. 

The wages of sin is death: if the wages of Virtue be dust, 

Would she have heart to endure for the life of the worm and 
the fly ? 

She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats of the just. 
To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a summer sky: 

Give her the wages of going on, and not to die. 



THE VICTIM. 



793 



THE VICTIM. 




PLAGUE upon the people fell, 
A taniine after laid them low. 
Then thoipe and byre arose in fire, 

For on them brake the sudden foe; 
So thick they died the people cried, 
raj==5*tsfi?^g^ " "^'^"^ Gods are moved against tlie land." 
-' I^^XThe Priest in horror about his altar 
To Thor and Odin lifted a hand: 
" Help us from famine 
And plao;ue and strife! 
What would vou have of us? 
Human life? 
Were it our nearest, 
W^ere it our dearest, 
(Answer, O answer) 

We give' vou his life." 



But still the foeman spoil'd and burn'd, 

And cattle died, and deer in wood. 
And Isird in air, and fishes turn'd 

And whiten'd all the rolling flood; 
And dead men lay all over the wa\', 

Or down in a furrow scathed with flame: 
And ever and aye the Priesthood moan'd 
Till at last it seem'd that an answer came: 
" The King is happy 
In child and wife; 
Take you his dearest, 
Give us a life." 



The Priest went out by heath and hill; 

The King was hunting in the wild; 
They found the mother sitting still; 

She cast her arms about the child. 
The child was only eight summers old. 

His beauty still with his years increased, 



794 THE VICTIM. 



His face was ruddy, his hair was gold, 
He seem'd a victim due to the priest. 
The Priest beheld him. 
And cried with joy, 
"The Gods have answer'd: 
We give them the boy." 

The King return'd from out the wild, 

He bore but little game in hand; 
The mother said: " They have taken the child 

To spill his blood and heal the land : 
The land is sick, the people diseased, 

And blight and famine on all the lea: 
The holy Gods, they must be appeased, 
So I pray you tell the truth to me. 
They have taken our son, 
They will have his life. 
Is he your dearest? 
Gvl, the wife?" 

The King bent low, with hand on brow, 

He stay'd his arms upon his knee: 
" O wife, what use to answer now? 

For now the Priest has judged for me." 
The King was shaken with holy fear; 

" The Gods," he said, " would have chosen wellj 
Yet both are near, and both are dear, 
And which the dearest I cannot tel!!" 
But the priest was happy, 
His victim won: 
" We have his dearest, 
His only son! " 

The rites prepared, the victim bared. 

The knife uprising toward the blow. 
To the altar-stone she sprang alone, 

"Me, not mv darling, no!" 
He caught her away with a sudden cry: 

Suddenly' from him brake his wife. 
And shrieking, "/am his dearest, I — 
/am his dearest!" rush'd on the knife. 
And the priest was happy, 
"O Father Odin, 
We give you a life. 



THE SAILOR-BOr. 



795 



Which was his nearest? 
Who was his dearest? 
The Gods have answer'd; 
We give them the wife!" 



KSi&»5$«— 




THE SAILOR-BOr. 



ose at dawn and, fired with hope, 
Shot o'er the seething harbor-bar, 
d reach'd the ship and caught the rope. 
And whistled to the morning star. 



'^SgW^^'^^^^t- ^""^l while he whistled long and loud 
^j^^^"^ He heard a fierce mermaiden cry, 



" O Boy, tho' thou art young and proud, 
I see the place where thou wilt lie. 




" The sands and yeasty surges mix 

In caves about the dreary bay, 
And on thy ribs the limpet sticks, 

And in th^' heart the scrawl shall play." 

" Fool," he answer'd, "death is sure 
To those that stay and those that roam, 

But I will never more endure 

To sit with empty hands at home. 

" My mother clings about my neck. 

My sisters crying, ' Stay, for shame;' 
My father raves of death and wrecK, 

They are all to blame, they are all to blame. 



" God help me! save 1 take my part 
Of danger on the roaring sea, 

A devil rises in my heart, 

Far worse tiian any death to me." 



796 



AFTER-THOUGHT. 



AFTER-THOUGHT. * 




|H God! the petty fools of rhyme 
|[ That shriek and sweat in pigmy wars 
ggf Before the stormy face of Time, 
5J}fe And lool<:'d at by the silent stars; — 



Who hate each other for a song, 
And do their little best to bite 

And pinch their brethren in the throng. 
And scratch the ver^' dead for spite; — 



And strain to make an inch of room 
For their sweet selves, and cannot bear 

The sullen Lethe rolling doom 

On them and theirs and all things here;- 

When one small tonch of Charitv 

Could lift them nearer God-like state 

Than if the crowded Orb should cry 
Like those who cried Diana great. 

And I too, talk, and lose the touch 

I talk of. Surely, after all 
The noblest answer unto such 

Is kindly stillness when they bawl. 




* From Punchy March 7, 1S46, si^ed '' Alcibiades." 



THE OPENING OF THE INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION. 797 



ODE SUNG AT THE OPENING OF THE INTERNATIONAL 

EXHIBITION. 



^JX-^: 




i I'LIFT a thousaiul voices full and sweet, 

In this wide hall with earth's invention stored, 
And praise th' invisible universal Lord, 
Who lets once more in peace the nations meet, 
Where Science, Art, and Labor have outpour'd 
Their myriad horns of plenty at our feet. 



O silent father of our Kings to be • 

IMourn'd in this golden hour of jubilee, 

For this, for all, we weep our thanks to thee! 

The world-compelling plan was thine. 

And lo! the long laborious miles 

Of Palace: lo! the giant aisles 

Rich in model and design ; 

Harvest-tool and husbandry. 

Loom and wheel and engin'ry 

Secrets of the sullen mine. 

Steel and gold, and corn and \vine, 

Fabi-ic rough, or fairy-fine, 

Sunny tokens of the Line, 

Polar marvels, and a feast 

Of wonder out of West and East, 

And shapes and hues of Art divine! 

All of beauty, all of use, 

That one fair planet can produce. 



Brought from under every star. 
Blown from over every main. 
And mixt, as life is mixt with pain, 

The works of peace with works of war. 



O )'e, the wise who think, the wise who reign. 
From growing commerce loose her latest chain. 
And let the fair white-wing'd peace-maker fly 
To happj' havens under all the sky. 



798 



SONNET TO WILLIAM CHARLES MACREADY 



And mix the seasons and the golden hours, 
Till each man finds his own in all men's good, 
And all men work in noble brotherhood. 
Breaking their mailed fleets and armed towers. 
And ruling by obeying Nature's powers. 

And gathering all the fruits of peace and crown'd with all hei 
flowers. 



•••^5=:»$;igJ«=s*«- 



SONNET. 



TO WILLIAM CH'ARLES MACREADY.* 




AREWELL, Macready, since to-night we part. 
Full-handed thunders often have confest 
Thy power, well-used to move the joublic breast. 
We thank thee with one voice, and from the heart. 
Farewell, Macready; since this night we part. 
Go, take thine honors home: lank with the best, 
Garrick, and statelier Kemble, and the rest 
Who made a nation jjurer thro' their art. 
Thine is it, that our Drama tiid not die, 
Nor flicker down to brainless pantomime. 
And those gilt gauds men-children swarm to see. 
Farewell, Macready; moral, grave, sublime. 
Our Shakespeare's bland and universal eye 

Dwells pleased, thro' twice a hundred years, on thee. 




* Read bv Mr. lohn Forster at a dinner criven to Mr. Macready, March i, 1S51, on his retirement from th« 



4Uf(e. 




A * 



*' And crown'd with all her flowers.' 



STANZAS — THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1853. 799 



STAjVZAS.* 



li^^0 



.^'kCll') ^^^ ^'"'"' ^ ^^'asted youthful hours, 
^^J^^^^One of the shining winged powers, 

Show'd me vast cliffs with crown of towers. 

As toward the gracious light I bow'd, 
They seem'd high palaces and proud, 
Hid now and then by sliding cloud. 

He said, " The labor is not small; 
Yet winds the pathway free to all : — 
Take care thou dost not fear to fall!" 




••«5=!»eig-«=S«— 



T//B THIRD OF FEBRUAR7-, 1852.! 



III". 



lords, we heard you speak; you told us all 
That England's honest censure went too far; 

Jgl^'' That our free press should cease to brawl, 
''^"N, Not sting the fiery Frenchman into war. 

X' ■'■'■ ^"^ "" ancient privilege, mv lords. 

To fling whate'er we felt, not fearing, into words. 

We love not this French God, this child of Hell, 
Wild War, who breaks the converse of the v/ise? 

But though we love kind Peace so well. 
We dare not, e'en by silence, sanction lies. 

It might safe be our censures to withdraw; 

And yet, my lords, not well; there is a higher law. 
As long as we remain, we must speak free, 



• From Tht Kttpsake, 1831. t From The Examintr, iS5«, signed " Merlin.' 



800 



THE THIRD OF FEBRUARl', 185Si. 



Though alL the storm of Europe on us break; 
No little German state are we, 

But the one voice in Europe: we must speak; 
That if to-nigiit our greatness were struck dead, 

There might remain some record of tlie things we said. 

If you be fearful, then must we be bold. 
Our Britain cannot salve a tyrant o'er. 




Better the waste Atlantic roll'd 

On her and us and ours forevermore. 
What! have we fought for freedom from our prime, 
At last to dodge and palter with a jjublic crime? 

Shall \vc fear him? our own we never feared. 

From our first Charles; by force we wrung our claims, 
Prick'd bv the Papal spui, we rear'd, 

And flimg the burden of the second James. 
1 say we never fear'd! and as for these. 
We broke them on the land, \vu drove them on the seas 



And fiu, my lords, vou make the people muse, 
In doubt if you be of our Barons' breed — 

Were those your sires wiio fought at Lewes? 
Is this the manly strain of Runnymede? 

O fall'n nobility, that, overaw'd. 

Would lisp in honey'd whispers of this monstrous fraud. 



BlilTUNS, GUARD TOUR OWN. 



801 



We feel, at least, that silence here were sin. 

Not ours the fault if we have feeble hosts — 
If easy patrons of their kin 

Have left the last free race with naked coasts! 
They knew the precious things they had to guard : 
For us, we v^'ill not spare the tyi'ant one hard word. 

Though niggard throats of Manchester may bawl. 
What England was, shall her true sons forget? 

We are not cotton-spinners all. 

But some love England, and her honor yet. 

And these in our Thermopylae shall stand, 

And hoKl against the world the honor of the land. 



■••^=i«Sig-«s^ 





BRITOiVS, GUARD I'OUR OWX.' 



ISE, Britons, rise, if manhood be not dead; 
I'^The world's last tempest darkens overhead; 
The Pope has bless'd him; 
The Church caress'd him; 
He triumphs; maybe we shall stand alone, 
Britons, guard your own. 



f\i His ruthless host is bought with plunder'd gold, 
By lying priests the peasants' votes controll'd. 
All freedom vanish'd, 
The true men banish'd. 
He triumphs: maybe we shall stand alone. 
Britons, guard vour own. 

Peace-lovers we — sweet Peace we all desire — 
Peace-lovers we — but who can trust a liar? — 

Peace-lovers, haters 

Of shameless traitors, 
We hate not France, but this man's heart of stone. 

Britons, guard your own. 



♦ From The Examiner, 1S52. 



51 



802 



BRITONS, GUARD TOUR OWA'. 



' We hate not Fiance, but France has lost her voice, 
This man is France, the man thev call her choice. 

Bv tricks and sp3'ing, 

By craft and lying. 
And murder was her freedom overthrown. 

Britons, guard ^-our own. 

"Vive I'Empereur" may follow by and by: 
" God save the Queen " is here a truer cry- 
God save the Nation, 
The toleration, 
And the free speech that makes a Briton known, 
Britons, guard your own. 

Rome's dearest daughter now is captive France, 
The Jesuit laughs, and reckoning on his chance, 
Would unrelenting- 
Kill all dissenting, 
Till we were left to fight for truth alone. 
Britons, guard your own. 

Call home your sliips across Biscayan tides. 
To blow the battle from their oaken sides„ 

Wh}- waste they j'onder 

Their idle thunder? 
Why stay they there to guard a foreign throne? 

Seamen, guard your own. 

We were the best of marksmen long ago, 

We won old battles with our strength, the bow. 

Now practise, yeoman. 

Like those bo\vmen, 
TI}1 your balls fly as their shafts have flown 

Yeomen, guard your own. 

His soldier-ridden Highness might incline 
To take Sardinia, Belgium, or the Rhine: 

Shall we stand idle. 

Nor seek to bridle 
His rude aggressions, till we stand alone? 

Make their cause your own. 

onould he land here, and for one hour prevail, 
There must no man go back to bear the tale: 



HANDS ALL ROUND. 



803 



No man to bear it — 
Swear it! we swear it! 
Although we fight the banded world alone 
We swear to guard our own. 



•-^^»$;jg-*s$H.- 



HANDS ALL ROUND* 




IRST drink a health, this solemn nignt, 

A health to England, evei y guest; 
-, That man's the best cosmopoiite 

Who loves his native countrv best. 
May Freedom's oak for ever live 

With stronger life from day to day; 
,fejj, That man's the best Conservative 
H Who lops the mouUler'd branch away. 

Hands all round! 
God the tyrant's hope confound! 
To this great cause of Freedom drink, mv friends, 
' ■Q'i And the great name of England, round and round- 

A health to Europe's honest men! 

Heaven guard them from her tyrant's jails! 
From wrong'd Poerio's noisome den. 

From iron limbs and tortured nails ! 
We curse the crimes of southern kings. 

The Russian whips and Austrian rods — 
We likewise have our evil things; 

Too much we make our Ledgers, Gods. 
Yet hands all round! 

God the tyrant's cause confound! 
To Europe's better health we drink, my friends. 

And the great name of England, round and round! 



What health to France, if France be she, 

Whom martial progress only charms.'' 
Yet tell her — better to be free 



♦From The Examiner^ 1S52, signed "Merlin.** 



804 HANDS ALL ROUND. 

Than vanquish all the world in arms. 
Her frantic city's flashing heats 

But fire, to blast, the hopes of men. 
Why change the titles of your streets? 

You fools, you'll want them all <jgain. 
Hands all round! 

God the tyrant's cause confound! 
To France, the wiser France, we drink, my friends, 

And the great name of England, round and round. 

Gigantic daughter of the West, 

We drink to thee across the flood. 
We know thee, and we love thee best, 

For art thou not of British blood? 
Should war's mad blast again be blown. 

Permit not thou the tyrant powers 
To fight thy mother here alone, 

But let thv broadsides, roar with ours. 
Hands all round ! 

God the tvrant's cause confound! 
To our dear kinsmen of the West, m\' friends, 

And the great name of England, round and round. 

O rise, our strong Atlantic sons, 

When war against our freedom springs! 
O speak to Europe through your guns! 

They can be understood by kings. v 

You must not mix our Queen with those 

That wish to keep their peojjle fools; 
Our freedom's foemen are her foes, 

Slie comprehends the race she rules. 
Hands all round ! 

God the tvrant's cause confound! 
To our dear kinsmen in the West, my friends, 

And the great name of England, round and round. 




THE WAR. 



805 



THE WAR* 




HERE is a sound of thunder afar, 

Storm in the South that darkens the day. 
Storm of battle and thunder of war. 
Well, if it do not roll our way. 
Form ! form ! Riflemen form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the storm! 
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form! 



Be not deaf to the sound that warns. 

Be not gull'd by a despot's plea! 
Are figs of thistles, or grapes of thorns? 
How should a despot set men free? 
Form! form! Riflemen form! 
Ready, be ready to meet the storm! 
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form ! 



Let your Reforms for a moment go. 

Look to your butts and take good aims. 
Better a rotten borough or so. 

Than a rotten fleet or a city of flames! 
Form ! form ! Riflemen form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the storm! 
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form! 

Form, be ready to do or die! 

Form in Freedom's name and the Queen's! 
True, that we have a faithful ally. 

But only the Devil knows what he means. 
Form! form! Riflemen form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the storm ! 
Rifleinen, riflemen, riflemen form! 



* From the London Times, May 9, 1S59. 



bViJ 



J WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. 



A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. 




March 7, 1S63. 



EA-KINGS' d;iuo-hter from over the sea, 

Alexaiulra! 

Saxon aiul Norman and Dane are we, 

But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee, 

Alexandra! 

Welcome her, thunders of fort and of fleet! 

Welcome her, thundering cheer of the street! 
p Welcome her, all things youthful and sweet. 

Scatter the blossom under her feet! 
^ Break, happ^v land, into earlier flowers! 

Make music, O bird, in the new-budded bowers; 

Blazon your mottoes of blessing and prayer! 

Welcome her, \velcome her, all that is ours! 

Warble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare! 

Flags, flutter out upon turrets and towers, 

Flames, on the \\indv headland flare! 

Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire! 

Clash, ye bells, in the merr)' March air! 

Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire! 

Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and higher 

Melt into the stars for the land's desire! 

Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice, 

Roll as a ground-swell dash'd on the strand, 




■:^- 







y 







'Break, happv land, into earlier flowers ! 
Make music, O bird, in the new-budded bowers." 



ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1782. 807 

Roar as the sea when he welcomes the lanti, 

And welcome her, welcome the land's desire, 

The sea-Uings' daughter as happy as fair, 

Blissful bride of a blissful heir. 

Bride of the heir of the kings of the sea — 

O I'ov to the people, and jov to the throne. 

Come to us, love us, and make us your own: 

For Saxon or Dane or Norman we. 

Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be. 

We are each all Dane in our welcome of thee, 

Alexandra' 



■*=:«^;:;$»=:s«— • 



ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1782. 

^P^l THOU, that sendest out the man 
, [■,Uy]- To rule bv land ami sea, 
^lljv^^"" Strong mother of a Lion-line, 
wS- Be proud of those strong sons of Thine 
'jt Who wrench'd their rights from thee! 

\ 

What wonder, if in noble heat 

Those men thine arms withstood, 
Be taught the lesson thou hast taught, 
And in thy spirit with thee fought — 
Who sprang from English blood! 

But thou rejoice with liberal joy. 

Lift up thy rocky face, 
And shatter, when the storms are blacks 
In many a streaming torrent back. 

The seas that shock thy base! 

Whatever harmonies of law 

The glowing world assume, 
Thv work is thine — the single note 
From that deep chord ^vhich Hampden smote 

Will vibrate to the doom^ 



OSV A SPITE J- UL LETT Eli. 



ON A SPITEFUL LETTER* 




"^ ERE, it is here — The close of the year, 
And with it a spiteful letter. 
^Mv fame in song has clone him much wrong, 
i-' For himself has done much better. 

*'i^; O foolish bard, is your lot so hard, 
If men neglect your pages? 
I think not much of yours or of mine: 
I hear the roll of the ages. 

This fallen leaf, isn't fame as brief? 

Mv rhymes may have been the stronger. 
Vet hate me not, but abide 3'our lot; 

I last but a moment longer. 

O faded leaf, isn't fame as brief? 

What room is here for a hater.' 
Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener leaf. 

For it hangs one moment later. 

Greater than I — isn't that vour crv.' 

A.nd I shall live to see it. 
Well, if it be so, so it is, j-ou know; 

And if it be so — so be it. 

O summer leaf, isn't life as brief? 

But this is the time of hollies. 
And my heart, my heart is an evergfreen: 

And I hate the spites and the foilies. 



•From Once a ^ff>(, January 4, 1S6S. 



A DEDICATION. 



A DEDICATION. 



igS|| EAR, near and true — no truer Time himself 
Mi.f Can prove you, tho' he make you evermore 



l.^'^^^ Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life 
JS^ Shoots to the fall — take this, and pray that he 
Who wrote it, honoring your sweet faith in him, 
Ma\- trust himself; and spite of praise and scorn, 
As one who feels the immeasurable world, 
Attain the wise indifference of the wise; 
And after Autumn past — if left to pass 
His autumn into seeming-leafless days — 
Draw toward the long frost and longest night, 
Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the fruit 
Which in our winter woodland looks a flower.* 



1865— I S66. t 




^ STOOD on a tower in the wet. 
And New Year and Old Year met. 
And winds were roaring and blowing; 

And I said, " O }'ears that meet in tears, 

Have ye aught that is worth the knowing? 

Science enough and exploring, 

Wanderers coming and going 

Matter enough for deploring, 

But aught that is worth the knowing?"* 

Seas at my feet were flowing. 

Waves on the shingle pouring. 

Old Year roaring and blowing, 

Aati New Year blowing and roaring. 



^ The fruit of the Spindle-tree i^Euonyynus Ettropctus.') t P'rom Good Words^ March. 1S6S. 



PaO 



IN THE VALLEr OF CAUTERETZ. 



JX THE VALLEr OF CAUTERETZ. 

|[^^3[ LL along the valley, stream that flashest white, 
^ S^jf E Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night, 
H^^ All along the valley, where thy waters flow, 
^IW I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty years ago. 
W All along the valley while I walk'd to-day, 
1 The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away; 
For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed. 
Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead. 
And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree. 
The voice of the dead was as a living voice to me. 



SONG. 




ADY, let the rolling drums 

Beat to battle where thy warrior stands: 
Now thy face across his fancy comes. 

And gives the battle to his hands. 

Lady, let the trumpets blow. 
Clasp thy little babes about thy knee: 
Now their warrior father meets the foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 



SONG. 




OME they brought him slain with spears. 

They brought him home at even-fall: 
All alone she sits and hears 

Echoes in his empty hall. 

Sounding on the morrow. 



The sun peep'd in from open field, 
The boy began to leap and prance. 
Rode upon his father's lance, 

Beat upon his father's shield — 

" O hush, my joy, my sorrow. 



BOADICEA. 



811 



EXPERIMENTS, 



BOADICEA. 



HILE about the shore of Mona those Neronian legion- 
arfes 
Burnt ami broke the grove and altar of the Druid and 

Druidess, 
Far in the East Boadicea, standing loftily charioted. 
Mad and maddening all that heard her in her fierce 
volubility, 
Girt by half the tribes of Britain, near the colony Camulodune, 
Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters o'er a wild confederacy. 

" They that scorn the tribes and call us Britain's barbarous popu- 
laces, 

Did tliey hear me, would thev listen, did thev pity me supplicating? 

Shall I heed them in their anguish? shall I brook to be supplicated? 

Hearlcenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant! 

Must their ever-ravening eagle's beak and talons annihilate us? 
Tear the noble heart of Britain, leave it gorily quivering? 
Bark an answer, Britain's raven! bark and blacken innumerable, 
Blacken round the Roman carrion, make the carcass a skeleton, 
Kite and kestrel, wolf and wolf kin, from the wilderness, wallow in it, 
Till the face of Bel be brighten'd, Taranis be propitiated. 
Lo their colony half-defended! lo their colony, Camulodune! 
There the horde of Roman robbers mock at a barbarous adversary. 
There a hive of Roinan liars worship a gluttonous emperor-idiot. 
Such is Rome, and this her deity ; hear it, Spirit of Cassivelaun! 




" Hear it, Gods! the Gods have heard it, O Icenian, O Coritanian! 
Doubt not ye the Gods have answer'd, Catieuchlanian, Trinobant. 
These have told us all their anger in miracidous utterances, 
Thunder, a flying fire in heaven, a murmur heard aerially, 
Phantom sound of blows descending, moan of an enemy inassacred. 
Phantom wail of women and children, multitudinous agonies. 
Bloodily flowed the Tamesa rolling phantom bodies of horses and men. 
Then a phantom colony smouldcr'd on the refluent estuary; 
Lastly yonder yester-even, suddenly giddily tottering — 



ou. 



BOADICEA. 



Tliere was one who watcli'd and told me — down their statue of Victory 

fell. 
Lo their precious Roman bantling, lo the colony Camulodune, 
Shall we teach it a Roman lesson? shall we care to be pitiful? 
Shall %s'c deal with it as an infant? shall we dandle it amorously? 

"Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant! 



B^^E 


^ 






^B 








'^ jMf^-'^f^-^'^^' '- 


.^-i 


H^nH;^-^V^S^8Sc&^3^^^^^9^^^| 




mm 




^^^sV'^B^KA^ •' ' ^^^^^1 






1 




'.■V.i;!. ■ j 


^H 




^ ' -Wis* 


w 



While I roved about the forest, long and bitterly meditating. 

There I heard them in the darkness, at the mystical ceremony. 

Loosely robed in flying raiment, sang the terrible prophetesses. 

' Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, isle of silyery parapets! 

Tho' the Roman eagle shadoNv thee, tho' the gathering enemy narrow 

thee. 
Thou shalt wax and he shall dwindle, thou shalt be the mighty one yet! 
Thine the liberty, thine the glory, thine the deeds to be celebrated. 
Thine the mvriad-rolling ocean, light and shado^v iiiimitaDie, 



BOADICEA. 81 f5 



Thine the hinds of lasting summer, many-blossoming Paradises, 
Thine the North and thine the South, and thine thehattle-thunder of God.' 
So they chanted: how shall Britain light upon auguries happier.'' 
So they chanted in the darkness, and there comcth a \ictory now. 

" Hear Iccnian, Caticuchlanian, hear Coritaniiui, Trinobant! 
Me the wife of rich Prasutagus, me the lover of liberty, 
Me they seized and me they tortured, me they lash'd and humiliated. 
Me the sport of ribald Veterans, mine of ruffian violators! 
See they sit, they hide their faces, miserable in ignominy! 
Wherefore in me burns an anger, not by blood to be satiated. 
Lo the palaces and the temple, lo the colony Camulodune! 
There they ruled, and thence they wasted all the flourishing territorv. 
Thither at their will they iialed the yellow-ringleied Britoness— 
Bloodily, bloodily fall the battle-axe, unexhausted, inexorable. 
Shout Icenian, Catieuchlanian, shout Coritanian, Trinobant, 
Till the viciim hear within and yearn to hurry precipitously 
Like the leaf in a roaring whirlwind, like the smoke in a hurricane whirl'd 
Lo the colony, there they rioted in the city of Cunobeline.? 
There they drank in cups of emerald, there at tables of ebony lav, 
Rolling on their purple couches in their tender effeminacy. 
There they d velt and there thev rioted; there— there— they dwell no 

more. 
Burst the gales, and burn the palaces, break the works of the statuarv. 
Take the hoary Roman head and shatter it, hold it abominable. 
Cut the Roman boy to pieces in his lust and voluptuousness. 
Lash the maiden into swooning, me they lash'd and humiliated. 
Chop the t)reasts from off the mother, dash the brains of the little one out. 
Up my Bntt)ns, on my chariot, on my chargers, trample them under us." 

So the Queen Boadicea, standing loftily charioted. 
Brandishing in her hand a dart and rolling glances lioness-like 
Yelled and shrieked between her daughters in her fierce volubility. 
Till her people all around the royal chariot agitated. 
Madly dashed the darts together, writhing barbarous lineaments, 
Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when they shiver in Januarv 
Roar'd as when the rolling breakers boom and blancli on the precipices, 
Yell'd as when the winds of winter tear an oak on a promontory. 
So the silent colony hearing her tumultuous adversaries 
Clash the darts and on the buckler beat with rapid unanimous hand 
Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her pitiless avarice. 
Till she felt the heart within her fall and flutter tremulously. 
Then her pulses at the clamoring of her enemy fainted away. 
Out of evil evil flourishes, out of tyranny tyranny buds. 



»i4 



IN ouAivT/rr. 



Ran the land with Roman sL-iughter, muUitudinous agonies. 
Perish'd many a maid and matron, many a valorous legionary. 
Fell the colony, city and citadel, London, Verulam, Camulodune. 



■*Ss«Si^«=S*- 



IN QUANTITY. 



ON TRANSLATIONS OF HOMER. 



Hexameters and Pentameters. 




rHESE lame hexameters the strong-wing'd music of Homer! 
(-iNo — but a most burlesque barbarous experiment. 
When was a harsher sound ever heard, 3'e Muses of England? 

When did a frog coarser croak upon our Helicon.' 
Hexameters no worse than daring Germany gave lis, 
Barbarous experiment, babarrous hexameters. 



MILTON. 



Alcaics. 



?-»jk 




I MiGHTY-MOUTH'D inventor of harmonies, 
I* O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity, 
'^ God-gifted organ-voice of England. 
Milton, a name to resound for ages; 
Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, 
Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armories, 
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean 
Rings to the roar of an angel onset — 
Me rather all that bowery loneliness, 
The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring, 
And bloom profuse and cedar arches 
Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean, 
Where some refulgent sunset of India 
Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle. 
And crimson-hued the stately palm woods 
Whisper in odorous heights of even. 



JN quANTirr. 



81.0 




Hendecasyllabics. 



YOU chorus of indolent reviewers, 
11 Irresponsible, indolent reviewers. 

Look, I come to the test, a tinv poem 
All composed in a metre of Catullus, 
All in quantity, careful of my motion. 
Like the skater on ice that hardly bears him, 




Lest I foil unawares before the people, 

Waking laughter in indolent reviewers. 

Should I flounder awhile without a tumble 

Thro' this metrification of Catullus, 

They should speak to me not without a welcome. 

All that chorus of indolent reviewers. 

Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to tumble, 

So fintastical is the dainty metre. 

Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor believe me 

Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers. 

O blatant Magazines, regard me rather — 

Since I blush to belaud myself a moment — 

As some rare little rose, a piece of inmost 

Horticultural art, or half coquetle-like 

Maiden, not to be greeted unberiignly. 



8i0 



TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD IN BLANK VERSE. 



SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD IN BLANK VERSE. 



^O Hector said, and sea-like roar'd his host; 
^p^Then loosed their sweating- horses from the yoke 
'^ - And each beside his chariot bound his own; 
And oxen from the city, and goodiv sheep 
In haste they dro\-ej and honey-hearted wine 
And bread from out the houses brought, and heap'd 
Their firewood, and the winds from off the plain 
Roll'd the rich yapor far into the heaven. 
And these all night upon the bridge* of war 
Sal glorying; many a fire before them blazed: 




As when in heaven the stars about the moon 
Look beautiful, when all the \yinds are laid. 
And ever}' height comes out, and jutting peak 
And valley, and the immeasurable heavens 



• Or, rid^e. 



TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD IN BLANK VERSE. 



Si' 



Break open to their highest, and all the stars 
Shine, and the Shepherd gladdens in his heart : 
So many a fire between the ships and stream 
Of Xanthus blazed before the towers of Troy, 
A thousand on the plain; and close by each 
Sat fifty in the blaze of burning fire; 
And champing golden grain, the horses stood 
Hard by their chariots, waiting for the dawn.f 

Iliad, VIII, 542-561. 




t Or more literally, — 

And eating hoary grain and pulse the steeds 
Stood by their cars, waiting- the throned mom. 



62 




-^ 



' ""'- ^ (^ ^ OR THE ^ ^^ A^vtg 






?'jT^6Sii^ 






^'^ °'' ^^t>r. ^\ x'^^°" >\" 



■p^ , . ^# nTr^"^" ^'"^^ ^^^ "^ 






I r ' - ♦ ', V, ^ ^ 



"HE WINDOW: OR THE SONGS OF THE WRENS. 



821 



THE WINDOW; OR THE SONGS OF THE WRENS. 



Words written for Music. 

The Music by Arthur Sullivan. 

Four years ago Mr. Sullivan requested me to write a little song-cycle, German fashion, 
for him to exercise his art upon. He had been very successful in setting such old songs as 
" Orpheus with his Lute," and I drest up for him, partly in the old style, a puppet whose 
almost only merit is,_ perhaps, that it can dance to Mr. Sullivan's instrument. I am sorry 
that my four-year-old puppet should have to dance at all in the dark shadow of these dayr ; 
but the music is now completed, and I am bound by my promise. — [A. Tennyson.] 

December, 1S70. 

ON THE HILL. 




HE lights and shadows fly! 
Yonder it brightens and darkens down on the 
plain. 
A jewel, a jewel dear to a lover's eye! 
O is it the brook, or a jjool ; or her window 
pane. 
When the winds are up in the morning? 



Clouds that are racing above, 
And winds and lights and shadows that cannot be 
still. 
All running on one way to the home of my love. 
You are all running on, and I stand on the slope of 
the hill, 
And the winds are up in the morning! 



Follow, follow the chase! 
And my thoughts are as quick and as quick, ever on, on, on. 

O lights, are you flying over her sweet little face? 
And my heart is there before you are come and gone, 

When the winds are up in the morning! 



822 



THE WINDOW: OR THE SONGS OF THE WRENS. 



Follow them down the slope! 
And I follow them down to the window pane ot" my dear, 

And it brightens and darkens and brightens like my hope, 
And it darkens and brightens and darkens like my fear, 

And the winds are up in the morning. 



AT THE WINDOW. 

Vine, vine and eglantine. 
Clasp her window, trail and twine! 
Rose, rose and clematis. 
Trail and twine and clasp and kiss • 
Kiss, kiss; and make her a bower 
All of flowers, and drop me a flower, 
Drop me a flower. 

Vine, vine and eglantine. 

Cannot a flower, a flower, be mine? 




Rose, rose and clematis. 
Drop me a flower, a flower, to kiss, 
Kiss, kiss — And out of her bower 
All of flowers, a flower, a flower, 
Dropt, a flower. 



GONE! 



Gone ! 

Gone till the end of the year, 

Gone, and the light gone with her and left me in shadow here! 



THE WINDOW; OR THE SONGS OF THE WRENS. 82S 

Gone — flitted away, 
Taken the stars from the night and the sun from the day! 
Gone, and a cloud in my heart, and a storm in the air! 
Flown to the east or the west, flitted I know not where! 
Down in the south is a flash and a groan : she is there ! she is 
there ! 



IV. 



WINTER. 

The frost is here. 

And fuel is dear. 

And woods are sear. 

And fires burn clear, 

And frost is here 

And has bitten the heel of the going year. 

Bite, frost, bite! 

You roll up away from the light 

The blue wood-louse and the plump dormouse, 

And the bees are still'd, and the flies are kill'd, 

And you bite far into the heart of the house, 

But not into mine. 

Bite, frost, bite ! 

The woods are all the searer. 

The fuel is all the dearer. 

The fires are all the clearer. 

My spring is all the nearer. 

You have bitten into the heart of the earth, 

But not into mine. 



SPRING. 

Birds' love and birds' song 
Flying here and there. 

Birds' song and birds' love. 
And you with gold for hair! 

Birds' song: and birds' love. 



824 



THE WINDOW; OR THE SONGS OF THE WRENS. 



Passing with the weather, 
Men's song and men's love, 
To love once and forever. 

Men's love and birds' love, 

And women's lore and men's! 

And you my wren with a crown of gold, 
You my Queen of the wrens! 

You the Queen of the wrens — 







We'll be birds of a feather, 
I'll be King of the Queen of the wrens, 
And all in a nest tog-ether. 



VI. 



THE LETTER. 



Where is another sweet as my sweet. 
Fine of the fine, and shy of the shy? 

Fine little hands, fine little feet — 
Dewy blue eye. 

Shall I write to her? shall I go? 
Ask her to marry me by and by? 

Somebody said that she'd say no ; 
Somebody knows that she'll say ay I 



Ay or no, if ask'd to her face? 

Ay or no, from shy of the shy? 
Go, little letter, apace, apace, 

■Fly! 
Fly to the light in the valley below — 

Tell my wish to her dewy blue eye: 



— r-^^i 











" Be merry, all birds, to-dav, 

Be merry on earth as you never 
were merry before." 

See page S26 



THE WINDOW; OR THE SONGS OF THE WRENS. 825 

Somebody said that she'd say no; 
Somebody knows that she'll say ay! 



vn. 

NO ANSWER. 

The mist and the rain, the mist and the rain! 

Is it av or no? is it ay or no? 
And never a glimpse of her window pane! 

And I may die but the grass will grow, 
And the grass will grow when I am gone. 
And the wet west wind and the world will go on. 

Ay is the song of the wedded spheres, 

No is trouble and cloud and storm, 
Ay is life for a hundred years, 

No will push nie down to the worm, 
And when I am there and dead and gone. 
The wet west wind and the world will go on. 

The wind and the wet, the wind and the wet! 

Wet west wind, how you blow, you blow! 
And never a line from my lady yet! 

Is it ay or no? is it ay or no? 
Blow, then, blow, and when I am gone, 
The wet west wind and the world may go on. 



NO ANSWER. 

Winds are loud and you are dumb. 
Take my love, for love will come. 

Love will come but once a life. 
Winds are loud and winds will pass! 
Spring is here with leaf and grass: 

Take my love and be my wife. 
After-loves of maids and men 
Are but dainties drest again : 
Love me now, vou '11 love me then : 

Love can love but once a life. 



826 



THE WINDOW; OR THE SONGS OF THE WRENS. 



THE ANSWER. 

Two little hiimls that meet, 
Claspt on her seal, mv sweet! 
Must I take 3011 and break you, 
Two little haiuls that meet? 
I must take you, and break you, 
And loying- hands must part — 
Take, take — break, break, break — 
Break — you may break my heart. 
Faint heart never won — 
Break, break, ami all 's done. 



AY. 



Be jMERry, aii birds, to-day, 

Be merry on earth as you never were merry before, 














'Ki ^^ 






Be merry in heaven, O larks, and far away. 

And merry forever and ever, and one day more. 
Why? 
For it's easy to find a rhyme. 



Look, look, how he flits. 

The fire-crovvn'd king of the \vrens, from out of the pine I 
Look how they tumble the blossom, the mad little tits! 



THE WINDOW; OR THE SONGS OF THE WRENS. 827 



"Cuck-oo! Cuck-oo!" was ever May so fine? 
Why? 
For it's easy to Hnd a rhyme. 

O merry the linnet and dove, 

And swallow and sparrow and throstle, and have your desire! 
O merry my heart, you have gotten the wings of love, 
And flit like the king of the wrens with a crown of fire. 
\Vhy ? 
For it's ay ay ay, ay ay. 



XI. 



WHEN? 



Sun comes, moon comes, 

Time slips away. 
Sun sets, moon sets. 

Love, fix a dav. 

" A year hence, a year hence," 
" We shall both be gray." 

" A month hence, a month hence,'' 
" Far, far away." 

" A week hence, a week hence," 

" Ah, the long delay." 
« Wait a little, wait a little,'"' 

"You shall fix a day." 

" To-morrow, love, to-morrow, 
And that's an age away." 

Blaze upon her window, sun. 
And honor all the day. 

XII. 
MARRIAGE MORNING. 

Light, so low upon earth. 

You send a flash to the sun, 
Here is the golden close of love. 



828 



THE WINDOW; OR THE SONGS OF THE WRENS. 



All my wooing is done. 
O the woods and the meadows, 

Woods where we hid from the wet, 
Stiles where we stay'd to be kind. 

Meadows in which we met! 
Light, so low in the vale, 

You flash and lighten afar, 
For this is the golden morning of love. 

And you are his morning star. 
Flash, I am coming, I come. 

By meadow and stile and wood, 
O lighten into my ej'es and my heart. 

Into my heart and my blood! 
Heart, are you great enough 

For a love that never tires? 
O heart, are you great enough for love? 

I have heard of thorns and briers. 
Over the thorns and briers, 

Over the meadows and stiles, 
Over the ^vorld to the end of it 

Flash for a million miles. 




^„ '■iiSii,ir':'i' ■■ 







"Ky 



DESPAIR. 



829 










^^SjL ."'-..^.SrzS 




A DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE. 

A man and his wife liaving lost faith in a God, and hope of a life to come, and being 
Btterly miserable in this, resolve to end themselves by drowning. The woman is drowned^ 
but the man is rescued by a minister of the sect he had abandoned. 







\ ^^^'S it you that preach'd in the chapel there looking over 
'^'^■^ the sand 



km 






K 






>^j_Follow'd us too, that night, and dogg'd us, and drew 
-f''^ me to land ? 

7 What did I feel that night? You are curious. How 
should I tell } 
Does it matter so much what I felt? You rescued me — 
yet — was it well 
That you came unwish'd for, uncall'd, between me and the deep 

and my doom 
Three days since, three more dark days of the Godless gloom 
Of a life without sun, \vithout health, ■without hope, without any 

delight 
In anything here upon earth? but ah God, that night, thrt nigh. 
When the rolling eyes of the light-house there on the fatal neck 
Of land running out nito rock — they had saved many hundreds 
from wreck — 

Glared on our way toward death, I remember I thought as we past 
Does it matter how many they saved? we are all of us wreck'd at last — 
" Do 3'ou fear?" and there came thro' the roar of the breaker a whisper, 

a breath — 
"Fear? am I not with j'ou? I am frightened at life, not death." 




I 



,S80 DESPAIR. 

And the suns of the limitless Universe sparkled and shone in the sky, 

Flashing with fires as of God, but we knew that their light was a lie — 

Brio-ht as with deathless hope — but, however they sparkled and shone, 

The dark little worlds running round them were worlds of woe like our own — 

No soul in the heaven above, no soul on the earth below, 

A fiery scroll written over with lamentation and woe. 

See, we were nursed in the dark night-fold of your fatalist creed, 

And we turn'd to the growing dawn, we had hoped for a dawn indeed. 

When the light of a Sun that was coming would scatter the ghosts of the 

Past, 
And the cramping creeds that had madden'd the peoples would vanish at last 
And we broke away from the Christ, our human brother and friend, 
For He spoke, or it seem'd that He spoke, of a Hell without help, without end 

Hoped for a dawn and it came, but the promise had faded away, 

We had past from a cheerless night to the glare of a drearier day 

He is only a cloud and a smoke who was once a pillar of fire. 

The guess of a worm in the dust and the shadow of its desire — 

Of a worm as it writhes in a world of .the weak trodden down by the strong, 

Of a dying worm in a world, all massacre, murder, and wrong. 

O we poor orphans of nothing — alone on that lonely shore — 
Born of the brainless Nature who knew not that whicli she bore; 
Trustino- no longer that earthly flower would be heavenly fi-uit — 
Come from the brute, poor souls — no souls — and to die with tlie brute- 
Nay, but I am not claiming your pity: I know you of old — 
Small pity for those that have ranged from the narrow warmth of your fold 
Where you bawl'd the dark side of your faith and a God of eternal rage, 
Till you flung us back on ourselves, and the human heart, and the Age. 

But pity — the Pagan held it a vice — was in her and in me. 

Helpless, taking the place of the pitying God that should be! 

Pity for all that aches in the grasp of an idiot power. 

And pity for our own selves on an earth that bore not a flower; 

Pity for all that suffers on land or in air or the deep. 

And pity for our own selves till we long'd for eternal sleep. 

"Lightly step over the sands! the waters — you hear them call! 
Life with its anguish, and horrors, and errors — away with it all !" 
And she laid her hand in my own — she was always loyal and sweet — 
Till the points of the foam in the dusk came playing about our teet. 



DESP'AIR. 831 

There was a strong sea-current would sweep us out to the main. 

" Ah God," tho' I felt as I spoke, I ^vas taking the name in vain — 

"Ah God," and we turn'd to each other, we kiss'd, we embraced, she and I 

Knowing the Love we were used to believe everlasting would die; 

We had read their know-nothing books, and we lean'd to the darker side — 

Ah God, should we find Him, perhaps, perhaps, if we died, if we died; 

We never had found Him on earth, this earth is a fatherless Hell — 

"Dear Love, for ever and ever, for ever and ever farewell," 

Never a cry so desolate, not since the world began! 

Never a kiss so sad, no, not since the coming of man. 

But the blind wave cast me ashore, and you saved me, a valueless life. 
Not a grain of gratitude mine! You have parted the man from the wife. 
I am left alone on the land, she is all alone in the sea. 
If a curse meant aught, I would curse you for not having let me be. 

Visions of youth — for my brain was drunk with the water, it seems; 

I had past into perfect quiet at length out of pleasant dreams. 

And the transient trouble of drowning — what was it when match'd with the pains 

Of thehellish heat of a wretched life rushing back thro' the veins.' 

Why should I live? one son had forged on his father and fled. 
And if I believed in a God, I w^ould thank him, the other is dead. 
And there was a baby-girl, that had never look'd on the light: 
Happiest she of us all, for she past from the night to the night. 

But the crime, if a crime, of her eldest-born, her glory, her boast. 

Struck hard at the tender heart of the mother, and broke it almost; 

Tho', name and fame dying out for ever in endless time, 

Does it matter so much whether crown'd for a virtue, or hang'd for a crime? 

And ruin'd by him^ by him^ I stood there, naked, amazed 

In a world of Hrrogant opulence, fear'd myself turning crazed. 

And I would not be mock'd in a madhouse! and she, the delicate wife. 

With a grief that could only be cured; if cured, by the surgeon's knife, — 

Why should we bear with an hour ot torture, a moment of pain 

If every man die forever, if all his griefs are in vain. 

And the homeless planet at length will be wheel'd thro' the silence of space, 

Motherless evermore of an ever-vanishing race. 

When the worm shall have writhed its last, and its last brother-worm will have 

fled 
From the dead fossil skull that is left in the rocks of an earth that is dead.? 

45 



832 



DESPAIR. 



Have I crazed myself over their horrible infidel writings? O ves, 
For these are the new dark ages, you see, of the popular press, 
When the bat comes out of his cave, and the owls are whooping at noon, 
And Doubt is the lord of this dunghill and crows to the sun and the moon. 
Till the Sun and the Moon of our science are both of them turn'd into blood, 
And Hope will have broken her heart, running after a shadow of good; 
For their knowing and know-nothing books are scatter'd from hand to hand — 
Wc have knelt in your know-all chapel too, looking over the sand. 

What! I should call on that Infinite Love that has served us so well? 
Infinite wickedness rather that made everlasting Hell, 

Made us, foreknew us, foredoom'd us, and does what he will with his own ; 
Better our dead brute mother who never has heard us groan! 

Hell? if the souls of men were immortal, as men have been told, 

The lecher would cleave to his lusts, and the miser would yearn for his gold, 

And so there were Hell for ever! but were there a God as you say. 

His Love would have power over Hell till it utterlv vanish'd away. 

Ah yet — I have had some glimmer, at times, in my gloomiest woe. 

Of a God behind all — after all — the great G6d for aught that I know ; 

But the God of Love and of Hell together — they cannot be thought. 

If there be such a God, may the Great God curse him and bring him to naught! 

Blasphemy! whose is the fault? is it mine? for why would you save 

A madman to vex you with wretched words, who is best in his grave? 

Blasphemy! ay, why not, being damn'd beyond hope of grace? 

O 'A^ould I were yonder with her, and away from your faith and your face! 

Blasphemy! true! I have scared you pale with my scandalous talk. 

But the blasphemv to my mind lies all in the way that you walk. 

Hence! she is gone! can I stay? can I breathe divorced from the Past? 
You needs must have good lynx-eyes if I do not escape you at last 
Our orthodox coroner doubtless will find it a felo-de-se. 
And the stake and the cross-road, fool, if you will, does it matter to me? 







1 - \^.::1--^^VJi>--^ 


s^^^^s^^v'-^^jy^ 



CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE. 



833 



THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVT BRIGADE AT 
BALAKLA VA. 




HE charge of the gallant three hundred, the Heavy 
Brigade! — 
Down the hill, down the hill, thousands of Russians, 

Thousands of horsemen, drew to the valley and 

stay'd ; 
For Scarlett and Scarlett's three hundred were rid- 
ing by 
en the points of the Russian lances broke in on the sky; 
' he call'd "Left wheel into line!" and they wheel'd and 
obey'd. 
Then he look'd at the host that had halted he knew not 

why. 
And he turn'd half round, and he bade his trumpeter sound 
To the charge, and he rode on ahead, as he waved his blade 

To the gallant three hundred whose glory will never die 

"Follow," and up the hill, up the hill, followed the Heavy 
Brigade. 



The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, and the might of the tight I- 
Down the hill, slowly, thousands of Russians 
Drew to the valley, and halted at last on the height. 
With a wing push'd out to the left, and a wing to the right- 
But Scarlett was far on ahead, and he dash'd up alone 
Thro' the great grey slope of men. 
And he wheel'd his sabre he held his own 
Like an Englishman there and then; 
And the three that were nearest him follow'd with force 
Wedged themselves in between horse and horse, 
Fought for their lives in the narrow gap they had made, 
i-our amid thousands; and up the hill, up the hill 
Gaiiopt the gallant three hundred, the Heavy Brigade. 



III. 



Fell like a cannonshot. 
Burst like a thunderbolt, 



834 CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE. 

Crash'd like a hurricane, 

Broke tliro' the mass from below 

Drove thro' the midst of the foe, 

Plunged up and down, to and fro, 

Rode flashing blow ujjon blow, 

Brave Inniskillens and Greys 

Whirling their sabres in circles of lightJ 

And some of us, all in amaze. 

Who were held for a while from the fight, 

And were only standing at gaze. 

When the dark-muffled Russian crowd 

Folded its wings from the left and the right. 

And roll'd them around like a cloud, — 

O mad for the charge and the battle were we, 

When our own good redcoats sank from sight, 

Like drops of blood in a dark-grey sea, 

And we turned to each other, muttering, all dismay'd, 

Lost are the gallant three hundred, the Heavy Brigade? 



But they rode like Victors and Lords 

Thro' the forest of lances and swords 

In the heart of the Russian hordes; 

They rode, or they stood at bay — 

Struck with the sword-hand and slew, 

Down with the bridle hand drew 

The foe from the saddle and threw 

Underfoot there in the fray — 

Raged like a storm or stood like a rock 

Li the wave of a stormy day; 

Till suddenh' shock upon shock 

Stagger'd the mass from without, 

For our men gallopt up with a cheer and a shout. 

And the Russian surged, and waver'd and reel'd 

Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out of the field, 

Over the brow and away. 

Glory to each and to all, and the cliarge that thev made! 
Glory to all the three hundred, the Heavy Brigade! 




LOCKSLEV HALL SLXTT TEARS AFTER. 



83a 



LOCKSLET HALL SIXTY TEARS AFTER. 

jf ATE, my grandson, half the morning have I paced 
these sandy tracts, 
(Ssv Watched again the hollow ridges roaring into 
cataracts ; 

Wandered back to living bovhood while I heard 

' '' J'S^ ^^^ curlew's call; 




I myself so close on death, and death itself in 
Locksley Hall. 

So your happy suit was blasted — she, the faultless, the divine. 
And you liken — boyish babble — this boy-love of yours with 
mine! 

I, myself, have often babbled, doubtless, of a foolish past. 
Babble, babble! Our old England may go down in babble at 
last. 

Curse him, curse your fellow victim. Call him dotard in your 
rage, 
Eyes that lured a doting boyhood well might fool a dotard's age. 

Jilted for a wealthier; wealthier, yet perhaps she was not wise; 
I remember how j'ou kissed the miniature with those sweet eyes. 

In the Hall there hangs a painting, Amy's arms about my neck, 
Happy children in a sunbeam sitting on the ribs of wreck. 

In my life there was a picture — she that clasped my neck had flown, 
I was left within the shadow, sitting on the wreck alone. 

Yours has been a slighter ailment. Will you sicken for her sake? 
You? Not you? Your modern amourist is of easier, earthlier make. 

Amy loved me. Amy failed me. Amy was a timid child; 

But your Judith, but your worldling — she had never driven me wild. 

She that holds the diamond necklace dearer than the golden ring, 
She that finds a winter sunset fairer than a morn of spring; 

She that in her heart is brooding on his briefer lease of life, 

While she vows "till death shall part us," she, the would-be widow-wife. 

She, the worldling born of worldlings — father, mother. Be content, 
Even the homely farm can teach us there is something in descent. 



830 LOCKSLET HALL SIXTT TEARS AFTER. 



Yonder in that chapel, slowly sinking now into the ground, 
Lies the warrior, my forefather, with his feet upon the hound. 

Crossed for once, he sailed the sea, to crush the Moslem in his pride: 
Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead the cause in which he died. 

Vet how often I and Amy in the mouldering aisle have stood. 
Gazing for one pensive moment on that founder of our blood. 

There again I stood to-day, and where of old we knelt in prayer. 
Close beneath the casement crimson, with the shield of Locksley there; 

All in white Italian marble, looking still as if she smiled, 

Lies my Amy, dead in childbirth; dead the mother; dead the child. 

Dead, and sixty years ago; and dead her aged husband now. 

I, this old, white-headed dreamer, stooped and kissed her marble brow. 

Gone the fires of youth, the follies, furies, curses, passionate tears; 

Gone like fires and floods, and earthquakes of the planets' dawning years. 

Fires that shook me once, but now to silent ashes fallen away. 
Cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam of dying day. 

Gone the tyrant of my youth, and mute below the chancel stones 
All his "virtues" — I forgive them — black in white above his bones. 

Gone, the comrades of my bivouac, some in fight against the foe. 
Some through age and slow diseases, gone as all on earth will go. 

Gone, with whom for forty years my life in golden sequence ran, 
She, with all the charm of woman; she, with all the breadth of man. 

Strong in will and rich in wisdom; Edith, loyal, lowly, sweet. 
Feminine to her inmost heart, and feminine to her tender feet. 

Very woman of very woman; nurse of ailing body and mind; 
She that linked again the broken chain that bound me to my kind. 

Here to-day was Amy with me while I wandered down the coast. 
Near us Edith's holy shadow smiling at the slighter ghost. 

Gone our sailor son, thy father Leonard, early lost at sea; 
Thou alone, my boy, of Amy's kin and mine art left to me. 

Gone thy tender-natured mother, wearying to be left alone, 
Pining for the stronger heart that once had beat beside her own. 

Truth — for Truth is Truth — he worshiped, being true as he was brave; 
Good — for Good is Good — he followed, yet he looked beyond the grave; 

Wiser there than you, that, crowning barren Death as lord of all, 
Deem this over-tragic drama's closing curtain is the hall. 

Beautiful was death in him who saw the death but kept the deck, 
Saving women and their babes, and sinking with the sinking wreck. 



LOCKSLET HALL SIXTY rEARS AFTER. 837 

Gone forever — ever! No! For since our dying race began, 
Ever, ever, and forever, v^^as the leading light of man. 

Those that in barbarian burials killed the slave and slew the wife 
Felt within themselves the sacred passion of the second life. 

Indian warriors dream of ampler hunting grounds beyond the night; 
Even the black Australian, dying, hopes he shall return a white. 

Truth for truth, and good for good ! Be good. The true, the pure, the just — 
Take the charm forever from them, and they crumble into dust. 

Gone the cry of forward, forward! lost within a growing gloom, 
Lost or only heard in silence from the silence of a tomb; 

Half the marvels of my morning triumphs over time and space, 
Staled by frequence, shrunk by usage into commonest commonplace. 

Forward rang the voices then, and of the many mine was one; 
Let us hush this cry of forward till ten thousand years have gone. 

Far among the vanished races old Assyrian kings would flay 
Captives whom they caught in battle, — iron-hearted victors they. 

Ages afterwhile in Asia, he that led the wild Moguls, 

Timur, built his ghastly tower of eighty thousand human skulls. 

Then and here in Edward's time, an age of noblest English names, 
Christian conquerors took and flung the conquered Christian into flames. 

Love your enemy, bless your haters, said the Greatest of the great; 
Christian love among the churches looked the twin of heathen hate. 

From the golden alms of blessing man has coined himself a curse; 
Rome of Casar, Rome of Peter — which was crueler, which was worse? 

France has shown a light to all men; preached a gospel all men's good. 
Celtic Demos rose a demon, shrieked and stayed the light with blood. 

Hope was ever on her mountain watching till the day begun. 
Crowned with sunlight over darkness from the still unrisen sun. 

Have we grown at last beyond .the passions of the primal clan ? 
Kill your enemy, for you hate him? Still, your enemy was a man. 

Have we sunk below them? Peasants maim the helpless horse, and drive 
Innocent cattle under thatch and burn the kindlier brutes alive. 

Brutes! The brutes are not your wrongers, burnt at midnight, found at 

morn, 
Twisted hard in mortal agony, with their offspring born unborn 

Clinging to the silent mother. Are we devils? Are we men? 
Sweet St. Francis of Assissi — would that he were here again; 

He that in his catholic wholeness used to call the very flowers 
Sisters, brothers, and the beasts whose pains are hardly less than ours. 



838 LOCKSLSr HALL S/XTT TEARS AFTER. 

Chaos, cosmos! Cosmos, chaos! Who can tell how all will end! 

Read the wide world's annals you, and take their wisdom for your friend. 

Hope the best, but hold the Present, fatal daughter of the Past. 

Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hour will last. 

Aye, if dynamite and revolver leave you courage to be wise. 

When was age so crammed with menace, madness, written, spoken lies? 

Envy wears the mask of love, and, laughing sober fact to scorn. 
Cries to weakest as to strongest: "Ye are equals, equal born." 

Equal born? Oh, yes, if yonder hill be level with the flat. 
Charm us, orator, till the lion look no larger than the cat; 

Till the cat, through that mirage of overheated language, loom 
Larger than the lion. Demos end in working its own doom. 

Russia bursts our Indian barrier. Shall we fight her? Shall we yield? 
Pause before you sound the trumpet. Hear the voices from the field. 

Those three hundred millions under one imperial scepter now, 

Shall we hold them? Shall we loose them? Take the suffrage of the plow? 

Nay, but these would feel and follow truth, if only you and you — 
Which of realm-ruining party when you speak— were wholly true. 

Plowmen, shepherds have I found, and more than once and still could find. 
Sons of God and kings of men, utter nobleness of mind. 

Truthful, trustful, looking upward to the practiced hustings liar; 
So the higher wields the lower, while the lower is the higher. 

Here and there a cotter's babe is royal born by right divine. 
Here and there my lord is lower than his oxen or his swine. 

Chaos, cosmos. Cosmos, chaos. Once again the sickening game. 
Freedom free to slay herself, and dying while they shout her name. 

Step by step we gained a freedom known to Europe, known to all; 
Step by step we rose to greatness; through the tonguesters we may fall. 

You that woo the voices tell them old Experience is a fool; 

Teach your flattered kings that only those who cannot read can rule; 

Pluck the mighty from their seat, but set no meek ones in their place; 
Pillory Wisdom in your markets; pelt your offal at her face; 

Tumble Nature heels o'erhead, and yelling with the yelling street. 
Set the feet above the brain, and swear the brain is in the feet; 

Bring the old dark ages back without the faith, without the hope; 

Break the state, the church, the throne, and roll their ruins down the slope. 

Author, atheist, essayist, novelist, realist, rhymster, play your part; 
Paint the mortal shame of nature with the living hues of art; 



LOCKSLET HALL SIXTY TEARS AFTER. 839 



Rip your brothers' vices open; strip your own foul passions bare; 

Down with reticence, down with reverence, "forward," naked let them 

stare ; 
Feed the budding rose of boyhood with the drainage of your sewer; 
Send the drain into the fountain, lest the stream should issue pure; 
Set the maiden fancies wallowing in the troughs of Zolaism; 
Forward, forward— aye and backward; downward, too, into the abysm; 
Do your best to charm the worst, to lower the rising race of men. 
Have we risen from without the beast? Then back into the beast again! 

Only dust to dust for me that sicken at your lawless din; 

Dust in wholesome old-world dust before the newer world begin. 

Heated am I, you, you wonder? Well, it scarce becomes mine age; 

Patience! Let the dying actor mouth his last upon the stage; 

Cries of unprogressive dotage ere the graybeard fall asleep; 

Noises of a current narrowing, not the music of a deep. 

Ay! For doubtless I am old, and think gray thoughts, for I am gray. 

After all the stormy changes shall we find a changeless May? 

After madness, after massacre. Jacobinism, and Jacquerie, 

Some diviner force to guide us through the days I shall not see. 

When the schemes and all the systems, kingdoms, and republics fall, 

Something kindlier, higher, holier— all for each, and each for all? 

All the full-brain, half-brain races led by armistice, love and truth? 

All the millions at length, with all the visions of my youth? 

All diseases quenched by science, no man halt or deaf or blind; 

Stronger ever born of weaker, lustier body, larger mind? 

Earth at last a warless world; a single race, a single tongue? 

I have seen her far away, for is not Earth as yet so young? 

Every tiger-madness muzzled, every serpent-passion killed; 

Every grim ravine a garden, every blazing desert tilled? 

Robed in universal harvest up to either pole she smiles; 

Universal ocean softly washing all her warless isles. 

Warless when her tens are thousands and her thousands millions then- 

All her harvests all too narrow— who can fancy warless men ? 

Warless war will die out late; then will it ever, late or soon? 

Can it till this outworn earth be dead as yon dead world, the moon ? 

Dead the new astronomy calls her. On this day, and at this hour, 

In this gap behind the sandhills, whence you see the Locksley Tower, 

Here we met our latest meeting. Amy, sixty years ago. 

She and I. The moon was falling greenish thro' a rosy glow, 



840 LOCKSLET HALL SIXTl' I'EARS AFTER. 

Just above the gateway tower, and even where you see her now, 

Here we stood and clasped each other, swore the seeming deathless vow. 

Dead? But how her living glory lights the hall, the dune, the grass. 
Yet the moonlight is the moonlight and the sun himself will pass. 

Venus near her, smiling downward at this earthlier earth of ours. 
Closer on the sun, perhaps, a world of never-fading flowers. 

Hesper, whom the poet called Bringer home of all good things — 
All good things may move in Hesper, perfect peoples, perfect kings. 

Hesper, Venus, were we native to that splendor, or in Mars, 

We should see the globe we groan in fairest of their evening stars. 

Could we dream of wars and carnage, craft and madness, lust and spite, 
Roaring London, raving Paris, in that point of peaceful light? 

Might we not in glancing heavenward on a star so silver fair 

Yearn and clasp the hands and murmur: "Would to God that we were 

there?" 
Forward, backward — backward, forward — in the immeasurable sea, 
Swayed by vaster ebbs and flows than can be known to you or me. 

All the suns — are these but symbols of innumerable man, 
Man or mind that sees a shadow of the Planner or the plan? 

Is there evil but on earth? Or pain in every peopled sphere? 
Well, be grateful for the sounding watchword, evolution, here. 

Evolution, ever climbing after some ideal good, 
And reversion, ever dragging evolution in the mud. 

What are men that He should heed us? cried the king of sacred song — 
Insects of an hour that hourly work their brother insect wrong. 

While the silent heavens roll, and suns along their fiery way, 
All their planets whirling round them flash a million miles a day. 

Many an eon molded earth before her highest man was born; 
Many an eon, too, may pass when earth is manless and forlorn; 

Earth, so huge and yet so bounded, pools of salt and plots of land. 
Shallow skin of green and azure, chains of mountains, grains of sand. 

Only that which made us meant us to be mightier by and by. 

Set the sphere of all the boundless heavens within the human eye; 

Sent the shadow of Himself, the Boundless, through the human soul, 
Boundless inward in the atom, boundless outward in the whole. 

Here is Locksley Hall, my grandson, here my lion-guarded gate. 
Not to-night in Locksley Hall, to-morrow you, you come so late. 

Wrecked your train, or all but wrecked, a shattered wheel, a vicious boy. 
Good this "Forward" you that preach it? Is it wel' to wish you joy.' 



LOCKSLET HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 841 



Is it well that while we range with science, glorying the time, 
City children soak and blacken soul and sense in city slime? 

There among the glooming alleys Progress halts on palsied feet. 
Crime and Hunger cast our maidens by the thousand on the street; 

There the master scrimps his haggard sempstress of her daily bread ; 
There a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead; 

There the smouldering fire of fever creeps across the rotted floor, 
And the crowded couch of incest in the warrens of the poor. 

Nay, your pardon. Cry your forward, yours are hope and youth; but I — 
Eighty winters leave the dog too lame to follow with the cry. 

Lame and old, and past his time and passing now into the night, 
Yet I would the rising race were half as eager for the light. 

Light the fading gleam of even, light the glimmer of the dawn: 
Aged eyes may take the growing glimmer for the gleam withdrawn. 

Far away beyond her myriad coming changes earth will be 
Something other than the wildest modern guess of you and me. 

Earth may reach her earthly worst, or if she gain her earthly best, 
Would she find her human offspring — this ideal man — at rest.' 

Forward then ; but still remember how the course of time will swerve 
Crook, and turn upon itself in many a backward, streaming curve. 

Not the Hall to-night, my grandson, death and silence hold their own. 
Leave the master in the first dark hour of his last sleep alone. 

Worthier soul was he than I am, sound and honest rustic squire, 
Kindly landlord, boon companion. Youthful jealousy is a liar. 

Cast the poison from your bosom! Oust the madness from your brain! 
Let the tangled serpent show you that you have not lived in vain. 

Youthful youth and age are scholars yet, but in the lower school 
Not is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool. 

Yonder lies our young sea village — art and grace are less and less. 
Science grows, and beauty dwindles — roofs of slated hideousness. 

There is one old hostel left us where they swing the Locksley shield 
Till the peasant cow shall butt the lion passant frorn his field. 

Poor old Heraldry, poor old History, poor old Poetry passing hence, 
In the common deluge drowning old political common-sense. 

Poor old voice of eighty crying after voices that have fled; 
All I loved are vanished voices; all my steps are on the dead. 

All the world is ghost to me, and, as the phantom disappears, 
Forward far and far from here is all the hope of eighty years. 



842 LOCKSLET HALL SfXTV TEARS AFTER. 

In this hostel I remember — I repent it o'er his grave — 

Like a clown — by chance he met me — I refused the hand he gave. 

From that casement where the trailer mantles all the moldering bricks— 
I was then in early boyhood, Edith but a child of six — 

While I sheltered in this aichway from a day of driving showers, 
Passed the winsome face of Edith, like a flower among the flowers. 

Here to-night, the hall to-morrow. When they toll the chapel bell 
Shall I hear in one dark room a wailing, " I have loved thee well".'' 

Then a peal that shakes the portal.? One has come to claim his bride, 
Her that shrank and put me from her, shrieked and started from my side? 

Silent echoes. You, my Leonard, use and not abuse your day; 
Move among your people, know them; follow him who led the way. 

Strove for sixty widowed years to help his homelier brother men. 

Served the poor and built the cottage, raised the school and drained the fen. 

Hears he now the voice that wronged him? Who shall swear it cannot be.' 
Earth would never touch her worst were one in fifty such as he. 

Ere she gain her heavenly rest a God must mingle with the game; 
Nay, there may be those about us whom we neither see nor name, 

Felt within us as ourselves, the powers of good, the powers of ill, 
Strewing balm or shedding poison in the fountains of the will. 

Follow you the star that lights a desert pathway, yours and mine; 
Foward! till you see the highest — human nature is divine. 

Follow light and do the right — for man can half control his doom — 
Till you find the deathless angel seated in the vacant tomb. 

Forward! Let the stormy moment fly and mingle with the past, 

I, that loathed, have come to love him; love will conquer at the last. 

Gone at eighty, mine own age, — and I and you will bear the pal! ; 
Then I leave thee, lord and master, latest lord of Locksley Hall. 




CROSSING THE BAR. 



843 




CROSSING THE BAR. 



f?UNSET and evening star, 
And one clear call for me! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar, 
When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

Too full for sound and foam. 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home. 



Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell. 

When 1 embark : 



For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crost the bar. 







p^ 












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